


Expendable

by DebbieF



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, I marked it Teen and up for certain situations that will eventually come to light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-01-15 12:14:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 49,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12320889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DebbieF/pseuds/DebbieF
Summary: This was a prompt put up at the musketeerskink dreamwidth site by Anonymous.I will try to meet most of what was asked for in it.++++





	1. Chapter 1

The prompt was to be set between season one and season two  
This is what the prompt asked for:  
D'Artagnan had always thought he was expendable. The trio don't realize it at first, until it slaps them all in the face.  
After being tortured and put into a healing sleep, the brothers try to figure out why their pup seems to think so. In turn learning not only how lonely it was for the Gascon growing up but that Alexandre d'Artagnan was not an amazing or good father as they had assumed. Especially after his wife died.  
\- Porthos realizes he had more in common with d'Artagnan than he thought.  
\- Alexandre somewhat blamed Charles for his mother’s death. In turn he kept him at arm’s length (it doesn't help that Charles was too much like his stubborn, loving mother either).  
\- Alexandre never touched d'Artagnan or gave him any positive encouragement and he was very harsh when they did speak. He often forgot to feed the boy or to even give him better clothing, etc.  
\- D'Artagnan had only one friend. An old veteran who lived down the road. He taught the young Gascon how to wield a sword and to be a good man.  
\- The old vet was a friend or brother to Treville.

++++

_Present Day_

_Garrison_

Standing impatiently outside the infirmary door, Athos began pacing back and forth. He muttered under his breath, wondering why it was taking Aramis so long to give him news of any kind. Nearly bumping into Porthos' large bulk, Athos neatly sidestepped around his friend. Glowering at the closed door, he was filled with frustration. Bien, if it meant they'd have to plant themselves here until word was given that's exactly what they would do.

When Aramis eventually emerged from the infirmary, he appeared exhausted. Dark circles under his eyes attested to the lack of rest the marksmen, and their sometimes medic, had gone without. The lack of sleep also pertained to Athos and Porthos too, as both of them had been haunted by the sight of their wounded fourth. Still it was Aramis who was the one who tended to all their ailments, going for long periods without laying his head down because he couldn't bear to see anyone in pain.

In this instance it was a terribly injured d'Artagnan who needed Aramis' services, along with the Garrison physician's expertise. They had returned almost an hour ago from a botched mission. Rushing the young Gascon into the shelter of the infirmary, Porthos and Athos could only stare in surprise when the door closed firmly in their faces.

Pounding on it Porthos glared at Aramis when his brother opened the door. "Why'd ya slam it in our faces?"

"We don't need any distractions right now!" Apparently he could have phrased that a tad better. Stepping back from the seething giant, Aramis held up his hands. "Doctor Devereaux and I need to concentrate, Porthos." Sending a helpless look over at Athos, he tried to get the older man on his side in this matter.

"I believe what Aramis was delicately trying to _not_ say was that they do not need us prowling the floors or growling like wounded animals every time we hear d'Artagnan moaning with pain." Watching Porthos calm himself down, Athos squeezed the bigger man's arm. "Treville needs to hear what happened as soon as possible, mon ami."

"I'd rather stay 'ere." Looking away from the arched brow aimed in his direction Porthos made a show of grumbling a few times before he caved in, reluctantly leaving to do as ordered.

++++

_FLASHBACK_

A band of thieves had been operating outside of Paris, damaging property and stealing anything that wasn’t nailed down wherever they went. Having been bombarded with loads of complaints, Captain Treville arranged an audience with the king to discuss matters. Usually he handled this type of thing on his own. The only reason he needed to speak with the young monarch was because someone had died trying to go against those malandrins in the last town that the group had hit. Listening intently to Treville, King Louis told him to handle it as he saw fit. When the thieves were caught, however, His Majesty had ordered them to be hung. Which really didn't come as a surprise to Treville. So it was after this meeting that he had tasked the inseparables to hunt those thieves down to be taken in alive if at all possible.

Unfortunately the inseparables were not lucky in their search, running straight into a trap. Their egos took a beating, suffering the indignity of being outmaneuvered at their own game. It became much worse than dented egos, when it had been made quite clear that if they were to live one of them had to pay the price.

Of course the inseparables each stepped forward ready to make the ultimate sacrifice, if it meant the others would remain untouched. Collectively though the older men didn't want their youngest, and newest member of the family, to offer himself up either. Which caused nothing but arguments between themselves and d'Artagnan.

Shouting to gain their attention Ronan, the designated leader of the thieves in question, had had enough of the Musketeer's bickering. At first he had found it amusing. Now not so much. "I didn't capture all of you just to listen to your petty squabbles."

"Take me" Offering himself without hesitation, d'Artagnan shook off his brother's hands as they tried to pull him back.

Slowly retrieving his pistol from his belt Ronan leveled it at the men hovering around the youngest one. "Unless you want the boy's sacrifice to be in vein," he laughed deeply, "I suggest all of you move away from him... _NOW!_ "

Outnumbered and weaponless, the inseparables knew the odds were stacked against them. Still none of them moved from d'Artagnan's side, until they were forcibly taken away shouting and cursing at the top of their lungs. Fear for the pup was uppermost in their minds, observing the lad standing all alone now.

He couldn't look at them. Any of them or d'Artagnan might have given in to their pleading. Hanging his head down, d'Artagnan's long dark hair danced in the light breeze. Docilely letting himself be led away, he had always known that he was expendable. It had been so ever since the death of his maman, when d'Artagnan had been only a child of nine years.

" _This ain't right!_ " All three of them had been tied together so all Porthos could do was spit out his anger.

" _They... are ... dead... men_." If looks alone could kill and bury someone six foot under, Athos' eyes blazed with retribution.

" _They just don't know it yet!"_ Fury lacing his voice, Aramis wished he had a musket or pistol in his hands. He had been trying to work the rope loose that bound him to his brothers. All he succeeded in doing was to make his wrists bloody.

None of them had seen where d'Artagnan had been taken off too. However, it wasn't long after that they heard the agony the young Gascon suffered. D'Artagnan's screams were heartwrenching to the seasoned soldiers. Knowing how strong their youngest truly was, they realized whatever torture d'Artagnan endured had to be horrific otherwise the lad would have remained mute.

"I'll go mad if I have to keep listening to that!" Swearing strongly under his breath Athos’ chest tightened, tears threatening to fall. Refusing to give into grief, he realized d’Artagnan would need him to be strong for the lad.

For the moment all Aramis could do was offer up his petitions to God for the Gascon's life to be spared. Any injury dealt to the youngster could be overcome but there would be no coming back from death. So he whispered a litany of prayers hoping the Almighty would lend him an ear.

Nothing less than tearing Ronan and his men to itty bitty pieces, so small that they couldn't be put back together again, would satisfy Porthos. Condemning all the maladrins to the lowest pits of hell still wouldn’t be good enough for the likes of them.

Time passed ever so slowly for the inseparables. Each man lost in his own fear of what would be left of the boy when Ronan had finished with d'Artagnan.

In the past hour d'Artagnan's screams had died down to mere whimpers and then... nothing. It was the _nothing_ part that greatly concerned the inseparables. Working on the assumption that at best it simply meant d'Artagnan had eventually passed out, they each hoped that was the case. The flip side of that coin wasn't something any of them wanted to contemplate.

Wearing a smug smile Ronan magically appeared before them. There was a swagger to his walk that told Athos that the other man was very pleased with himself. Wishing he had access to his sword, Athos would have loved running it through the batard's heart. Promising himself that he'd make it happen at some point, Athos sharply snapped, " _Where... is... he?_ "

"Very brave, or should I say foolish, of you to take that tone with me, Musketeer," Ronan sneered. "Especially since you are the ones at a serious disadvantage." Cocking his head to the side he studied their furious faces. "As for the boy he proved a most entertaining distraction for my men." Squatting down in front of them, his mocking gaze ran over their expressions once more. "You'd like to kill me, oui?"

"Nothin' better ta do right now but thinkin' up ways ta hurt ya." Smirking, Porthos' dark eyes flashed with menace.

"Ah! You jest." Standing back up, Ronan grinned. "I like that." Walking back and forth in front of them he stopped at Athos' feet. "The young one yet lives. But I fear it may not be for too long," he taunted.

"We'll hunt you down like the dogs you are!" That was a promise Aramis meant to keep, even if it took him a lifetime.

"None of you will live to give the king's subjects the pleasure of seeing the life choked out of you from the end of a noose!" Grimly adding that foreboding warning, Athos looked past Ronan's thickset frame to see d'Artagnan being dragged back into the camp.

"As you can see I'm scared to death, Musketeer!" Laughing, Ronan waved his men over motioning for them to place the young man's body on the ground near the other three captives. He greatly enjoyed the horror reflected in the trio's expressions, as they gazed upon the Gascon's abused body.

" _Mon Dieu!_ " cried Aramis at the sight of his petit frere.

Having loosened the ropes around his hands somewhat, Porthos frantically struggled against them needing to get to the whelp's side. " _Merde!_ "

" _Nom de Dieu!_ " Cutting his wrists until they bled freely against his own bonds, Athos wouldn't give Ronan the satisfaction of seeing his pain as he too fought against his restraints.

Knowing what invoked such an outraged response from these hardened soldiers, Ronan glanced down at the unresponsive boy. "If he means so much to you I'd suggest making good time back to your Garrison," Ronan winked. "That is if you want to save his life." Signaling his men to mount up, he started to leave. Changing his mind, Ronan came to an abrupt stop turning around. Gracing the Musketeers with a low bow, he grinned. "I'm sure the pleasure has been all mine."

Ronan's mocking laughter grated on the inseparable's nerves, though they were thankful that the malandrins were leaving them alive. The same couldn't be said of their youngest, judging by the shape d'Artagnan appeared in none of them were certain that the young Gascon lived.

After the criminals eventually left the area, Porthos managed finally to snap the frayed rope apart he had been working on. Having been tied to his friends, their bonds loosened along with his. When all of them were free, they scurried over to where d'Artagnan's prone body laid still as death.

It wasn't a pretty sight to look upon. Shirtless, d'Artagnan's back was a torn and shredded mess of raw looking welts oozing dark blood. The lashes were no doubt made by a whip. Then there were the burn marks peppered all over the Gascon's chest. It didn't take a genius to figure out how d'Artagnan acquired those either. It wouldn't be long before all the boy's wounds festered.

Scowling at the dark bruises marring the whelp's olive-toned skin, Porthos glanced at Athos' set face. "Worked 'im over good before they tortured 'im too."

"Paris is not too far," Aramis reminded them. "We risk his wounds becoming infected the more we tarry here."

"He cannot ride in that condition!" Not meaning to take out his anger on Aramis, Athos removed his chapeau throwing it on the ground in frustration.

"There are no wagons or carts around here to place d'Artagnan in." Huffing, Aramis glared at Athos. What was he supposed to do? Conjure one up out of thin air?

"Apologies, mon frere." Glancing over at Roger, Athos sighed. "There is nothing for it then. You'll both have to hand the lad up to me." Once seated upon his horse, Athos waited for his friends to heft d'Artagnan into his arms. Minding his protégé's numerous injuries, Athos finally had the Gascon settled in front of him. He was anxious that the boy's back not rest too fully against Athos' chest otherwise the friction would further worsen d'Artagnan's wounds, causing even more pain to the pup. Holding himself stiffly in the saddle, Athos tried to lean back as far away from their youngest as best he could. Even though they were close to home, it would still be a long journey back to the Garrison for the rest of them. As far as d'Artagnan was concerned, it was a blessing that the boy would remain oblivious on the ride home.

++++

_Present Day_

"We've given him enough pain draught to make d'Artagnan sleep for at least a few days straight. This way it will give the lad's body a chance to heal." Running an unsteady hand through his dark locks, Aramis leaned his head back against the building.

"Was that a wise decision?" Having an urgent need to speak with his protégé', Athos was at first upset upon hearing this. Then he considered that it probably was the only course of action to take, under the circumstances. God alone knew that d'Artagnan needed a respite from the pain.

Rubbing his tired eyes Aramis knew what was on Athos' mind but wasn't in the mood to discuss it, for the moment. "When d'Artagnan awakens we will slowly try to get him to eat and drink something because by that point he'll be weak from lack of food."

"Not counting the fact that d'Artagnan would also be suffering the effects of dehydration too." What a damn mess! If he could take the pup's pain into his own body Athos would gladly do so.

Moving slightly away from the building Aramis leaned his forehead against one of the wooden beams instead, closing his eyes. "After accomplishing all that more pain draught would have to be administered." He didn't even want to think about it, knowing that d'Artagnan wouldn't be in the best of shape and it would be a struggle for all concerned.

"He was in such poor condition I feared there was a chance that we might lose him before arriving home." Head bent, Athos missed the flash of anguish in Aramis' eyes.

"For awhile it was touch and go." Reluctantly admitting that, Aramis grimaced upon the sharp look Athos gave him. Hearing the words from his own mouth made it seem more real somehow. "We've put a healing salve on d'Artagnan's burns and those deep lash marks. Now all we can hope for is that none of them become infected."

"Fever?"

"The pup's temperature has risen slowly but it's not to the point where we're worrying over it at this juncture." Pursing his lips, Aramis decided he had been out here long enough.

"May I see him, Aramis?"

Placing a hand on the older man's back, Aramis guided Athos inside. "We positioned the lad on his side so as not to further aggravate his injuries." When they were both standing at the foot of the bed Aramis said, "As you can see Doctor Devereaux placed pillows around d'Artagnan to keep the lad in place."

But it wasn't the pillows that caught Athos' attention. Wincing at the discoloration marring the Gascon's skin from the beating his protégé had undergone, he looked away from the offending sight for a brief moment. "The bruising would fade with time," he frowned. "For d'Artagnan's sake I hope the memories of how he attained them would too."

At the sound of the door creaking open, Athos and Aramis both turned around to see who had entered.

When the door quietly closed behind him, Porthos slipped inside the room. In time to hear Athos' words, his stomach rolled. "'Ow's the kid, Mis?" Listening to Aramis repeat the same thing the marksman just told Athos, Porthos sighed heavily. With sad eyes he watched the doctor approaching them.

Looking directly at Athos, Devereaux chose his words carefully. "Aramis explained to me what led to the boy's injuries." Glancing off to the side, his gaze rested on the wounded young man. "I'm afraid this has become a pattern of late don't you agree, gentlemen?" Walking away from the trio, Devereaux realized that the three stunned soldiers hadn't a clue on d'Artagnan's behavior, past or present. Having given the inseparables food for thought, he went over to check on his patient again.

Dead silence followed after the physician had dropped that bombshell on them. Staring at each other, they began looking back at all the signs none of them had picked up on before.

"Last mission," Porthos said. "Kid put 'imself in front of me ta save me from a musket ball." Rubbing his chin, he remembered that time. "Crazy whelp would 'av gotten shot if'n I hadn't shoved 'im outta the way. An afterward d'Artagnan said somethin' ta me about it not matterin' if'n 'e had been the one ta get shot." Shrugging the memory away, Porthos glanced over his shoulder at the whelp. "Things were too crazy at the time for me ta question 'im over it."

"Athos?" Gathering by the dark look entering his friend's eyes, Aramis figured that Athos must have remembered something. Waiting for him to offer up his own tale, Aramis wasn't sure if he'd be ready for it.

"The brawl that broke out at The Wren about a month ago." He could tell that his brothers remembered that day also. "At first I thought that d'Artagnan took the knife wound to the shoulder for me because my back was turned and I hadn't seen it coming."

"And now," Aramis prodded. He too had memories of d'Artagnan's self-sacrificing ways. They were becoming increasingly numerous. Why hadn't he noticed before this?

"He may have done so to protect me but it was the boy's words that struck me odd at the time." Pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off a headache threatening to blossom behind his eyes, Athos gazed sadly at his protégé. "I should have questioned him on it but worried more about the pup's injury."

"Don't keep us in suspense, man!" Porthos growled. "What did the whelp tell ya?"

"When I thanked him for the timely rescue d'Artagnan said that my life was more important than his own."

" _Merde!_ " Swearing Aramis slammed his hand on top of a counter holding several medicine bottles, which nearly toppled off. "Our youngest once told me something similar when he and I went chasing after a petty thief," he huffed. "That was when I ended up taking an unexpected dip in the Seine."

"That was before d'Artagnan had been officially commissioned." After that near disaster, Athos had been concerned for both men.

"Yeah I remember the two of ya came back lookin' like drowned river rats." It was amusing at the time or so Porthos had felt. Seeing it in a different light now, he realized something darker had been going on in that fool head of the kid's.

"I didn't have time to remove my cloak when I entered the water to catch our thief, nearly drowning for my efforts." How did he miss it? Feeling that he had let the lad down in some way, Aramis vowed to make up for it. "D'Artagnan followed me into the Seine, rescuing myself along with our thief." Plopping down onto one of the chairs Aramis hung his head down, staring at the wooden floorboards. "Later when I asked him how he fared d'Artagnan simply shrugged a shoulder, telling me to cease my worrying."

"That don't sound so awful, Mis."

Snorting, Aramis looked up into the dark face of his friend. "It is when that someone tells you that _he_ isn't important." Throwing himself off of the chair, Aramis began walking circles around his brothers. "I was shivering in my wet clothing and never bothered following up on d'Artagnan's strange remark."

"Mes amis, it would seem that we have a definite problem on our hands." Unless Treville needed him, Athos was going to set up his vigil in the infirmary. He wanted to be the first thing the boy saw when d'Artagnan opened his eyes. Hooking a foot under the nearest chair Athos pulled it over to the youngster's bedside. The hard, wooden chairs in the infirmary were not the most comfortable to sit upon but Athos made the best of it. Leaning back, he brought both legs up to rest upon the edge of the Gascon's bed. Studying his protégé with concern he quietly murmured, "What happened to make you think yourself so _expendable_?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even though the prompt called for this story to be set at the end of season one and beginning of season two, the Red Guards have not been taken under control of Rochefort. I'm not planning on having _Roche the rat_ in my story. Richelieu is not as yet dead. Just so you know. Then again I could always change my mind but this is where I'm at for the moment.
> 
> See notes at bottom.
> 
> ++++

_Three days later, late morning - Garrison infirmary_

"Ya sure ya ain't gone and killed the whelp!" Towering over Aramis and Doctor Deveraux, Porthos raged at them while his words bounced around the room.

Arms folded, the glower Athos directed at the other two men usually was reserved for recruits that didn't know any better and had deigned to get on his nerves. In this case it had been the physician and his friend Aramis that had stepped upon Athos' last nerve this morn. " _Three_ days ago you told us d'Artagnan would only be asleep for two days." He had uttered his concern yesterday when the pup had not woken up yet. Not being satisfied with the answer he received at the time, Athos began worrying that there was something else wrong with their youngest that wasn't being divulged.

Holding up a finger, Aramis tilted his head to the side. "I believe I mentioned that it would be _several_ days."

"Ta us that meant _two_ days and ya know it!" Holding up two digits, Porthos pointed them at Aramis' sheepish looking face.

"Perhaps the good doctor and I miscalculated somewhat the effects the pain draught would have on the lad." Exchanging a wry look with the doctor they both were hovering over d'Artagnan's sleeping form. "His body had undergone a severe trauma and rest could only benefit the boy."

"Ain't gonna _benefit_ 'im bein' weak from hunger either," Porthos snapped. He was pretty fed up at this point.

"In truth I'll be surprised if d'Artagnan would even have much of an appetite when he awakens." Noting frowns marring both his brother's dour faces, Aramis sighed. Bending his head he began to count cracks in the floorboards which had become something of a pastime of late. At least the wooden planks couldn't argue back.

"Kid still 'as ta eat." Growling softly, Porthos padded over to the end of the whelps' bed.

Jerking his head back up, Aramis' eyes narrowed on the bigger man. "We'll start out with something simple as broth first and see how the youngster handles it."

"Has his fever gone down?" Upset that his protégé was still unconscious, no matter Aramis' claims to the reasons why, Athos wouldn't stop his worrying until d'Artagnan opened his eyes up. Even if it meant that he'd only be listening to the boy's moans of pain when the pup did so.

"Fortunately providence smiled on the lad." Touching the Gascon's forehead, Devereaux nodded in approval. "His temperature has not risen by much. If it stays where it's at now that would aid greatly in d'Artagnan's recovery."

"Treville's given Porthos and myself another day to be with him." Lips tightening into a firm line, Athos remained focus on lad. "After that the captain has to put us back on the duty roster."

"What about moi?" Checking the youngster's back and chest wounds, Aramis too was pleased that there wasn't any signs of infection. They were ugly to look at, true, but were slowly on their way to mending. Aramis thanked God for the Gascon's recipe for that salve he had used. It truly had worked miracles. Apparently the recipe had been handed down through generations in d'Artagnan's mother's family. Now it belonged to the boy who generously shared it with all of them.

"Given you're helping to treat the lad, Treville won't bother assigning you other duties until he's back on the road to recovery." Running his fingertips lightly along d'Artagnan's cheek, Athos knew all of them had a long ways to go once the pup was back to feeling himself again. If Athos and the others had to continuously keep one eye on the boy, while they were out on assignments, it would be a distraction that none of them could afford. Eventually leading to someone getting hurt or at worst killed because of it.

"Give the captain my thanks for letting me stay with d'Artagnan." Catching a grimace crossing Porthos' dark features, Aramis arched a brow up in question.

"I just don't like this waitin' around is all." Moving around the bed, to stand beside Athos, Porthos nudged his brother in the shoulder. "Want me ta get Serge ta get together some lunch for us?"

"That wouldn't be a bad..." Not finishing his sentence, Athos froze. For at that moment d'Artagnan became restless, moaning softly.

All eyes in the room rested on the Gascon. They collectively held their breaths, in the hopes this meant that d'Artagnan was waking up. The boy's eyelids fluttered opened then closed again, twice in a row. When eventually they stayed opened, the lad gazed at them with glassy eyes.

"Hello there, petit frere." Smiling at the lad, Aramis brushed some stray strands of hair away from d'Artagnan's forehead. "You're back with us again."

Smacking dry lips together, staring up at Aramis with blurry vision, d'Artagnan wondered what the older man meant. "I... don't... don't remember going... anywhere." Hearing someone chuckling, he tried to turn his head to see who it was but was hampered by the position he was currently in.

"Ya didn't, whelp." Not knowing whether to laugh or cry, Porthos refrained from doing both.

When a stab of pain radiated up and down his back d'Artagnan scrunched up his face, catching sight of Aramis' sympathetic gaze. "Wha... what happened?" he croaked. It was then he realized why he couldn't move. Seemingly surrounded by mounds of pillows, d'Artagnan almost felt suffocated now that he was more aware. Trying to push the ones in front of him away, his hand was gently taken and held in Aramis' strong grip.

"Musn't touch." Another smile touched Aramis' lips upon noting the pout d'Artagnan threw at him. Ah! He had missed seeing that. It gave him no end of amusement.

"You sound like my maman used too when scolding me for doing something I shouldn't." Turning his face away from the all too curious faces looking down at him, d'Artagnan silently cursed himself for ever having mentioned that. It brought up too many sad memories for him, upon remembering what it was like after her death and his papa's neglect.

All of the inseparables knew that the lad's parents were deceased. It was a bone of contention between the trio that d'Artagnan hardly ever spoke about either of them. At first they had begun to believe that the boy had been ashamed of his life back in Gascony and perhaps Francoise and Alexandre d'Artagnan as well.

One time though Athos had been bold enough to approach Captain Treville about it and was dissuaded from his original thinking. Treville had been a long time acquaintance of the family, where he too lived. If anything d'Artagnan's parents doted on the youngster. So the Gascon's lack of self-esteem had to be coming from somewhere else. It would be like walking on eggshells around the pup, while they tried to get to the bottom of this mystery.

"Why can't I move... them? It's deuce uncomfortable!" Now fully awake, d'Artagnan could feel the sting and ache of his numerous injuries. It was just unclear as how he had attained them, in his muddled memories.

"Do you not remember anything?" This was not what Athos would call a welcome sign by any means. Oui, the boy had been in a drugged induced sleep. Still he found it hard to believe that a person could forget being beatened, flogged and burned all in one go. "Aramis, when the lad had been brought out to us we simply assumed his loss of consciousness came from the torture he had endured."

Realizing what the older man was asking without coming right out with it, Aramis his understanding. "I didn't detect a blow to the head which would explain an obvious concussion." Gently he touched d'Artagnan's face. "He certainly suffered bruises from where they struck him, but they wanted him to suffer." His dark eyes filled with anger once again, thinking back upon the shape the young Gascon had been in. "They would not have rendered him senseless."

"Mis is right," Porthos grunted. "Ronan and 'is goons wanted ta enjoy hearin' the kid screamin'. Whelp 'ad ta be awake for that."

"Then tell me why he doesn't remember anything?" Eyes darkening to midnight blue, turbulent as the seas the king's ships sailed upon, Athos was concerned that his protégé's mind had been damaged.

"The boy's just woken up," Aramis huffed, rolling his eyes. "I'd be surprised if he knew his own name if you'd ask him."

Leaning down, until his head nearly touched the young Gascon's, Porthos followed the marksman's suggestion. "What's your name, kid?"

Blinking up at the giant with confusion clearly in his eyes, d'Artagnan thought the dark-skinned man mad. "What do you think... it is?" he countered.

Throwing both hands up in the air, Athos' frustration came to a head. "Quit playing childish games, Porthos!"

"Ain't nothin' childish about findin' out if the kid's got all 'is wits about 'im." Hurt that Athos felt that way, Porthos was ready to stomp out of the infirmary. When the touch of Aramis' hand upon his back stopped him, he glanced at his friend and saw understanding there.

"Charles," d'Artagnan swallowed hard, "Charles... d'Artagnan."

"And who are we three?" Pointing to each of them, Athos tapped an impatient foot.

"He's Porthos, the strongest... man I know." Pointing over to the large man, d'Artagnan smiled at the obvious relief his brother felt.

Winking at the pup Porthos preened a bit, puffing out his chest, earning a snuff of laughter from the kid.

"That one's... Aramis and he's an... incorrigible flirt."

"Hey!" Waving a finger at him, Aramis' eyes twinkled merrily. "Names only. Not descriptions."

"Then there's Athos." His brown eyes gleamed with pride at his mentor.

" _There's Athos_... is that all I merit?" Lips twitching, Athos was curious as to the lad's next words.

"Mmmmm," d'Artagnan hummed, in between gasps of pain. "My mentor and the... finest swordsman... in all... of France."

"I believe that sums it up nicely, gentlemen," Devereaux broke in. "Let Aramis and I examine d'Artagnan while you two go bring everyone that lunch Porthos suggested."

"Thought I was the one gettin' the food." Seeing Athos was surprised at the doctor's words, Porthos grabbed his brother by the arm before the older man could put up a protest. "They want us outta the way for a time. Let's you and I descend on Serge together, mon ami."

Worry still eating away at Athos, his gaze lingered a minute longer on the boy. With d'Artagnan aware now and even up to teasing them, Athos' concern marginally lessened. Still he was more than disturbed at the lack of memory the pup had at the hands of Ronan and his band. Perhaps d'Artagnan simply wanted to shove everything to the back of his mind. Which is something quiet understandable. But there would come a time when his protégé would have to speak upon it. Their major concern, though, was curbing the young Gascon's near suicidal tendencies toward saving others without seemingly concerned for his own welfare. When a hand shoved Athos, none to gently, in the back he knew Porthos' patience had come to an end. Following his friend out, Athos quietly shut the door behind him.

After the two men left, Doctor Devereaux questioned d'Artagnan on how the lad felt. Receiving honest answers in turn, he went off to make up several more poultrices to re-apply to the young man's wounds.

It was then that Aramis pulled over a chair to sit down beside the Gascon. "You do know that you cannot do that _ever, ever_ again." Leaning forward, elbows resting on knees, he gazed into the pup's eyes. When d'Artagnan quickly averted them, Aramis figured the boy wanted to skirt around the elephant in the room.

He knew what Aramis was talking about, but d'Artagnan refused to bring the subject up. Keeping his mouth clamped shut, he prayed his brother would drop it. A tap upon his nose had him frowning up at the older man.

"Uh uh." Shaking his head, Aramis' lips pursed. "When you are better all of us are going to have a long talk with you."

"I did what any of you would... have done and... you know... it." Closing his eyes against the pain the wounds on his chest were causing him, d'Artagnan wished the physician would hurry up and come back. If only to shut Aramis up for a time.

"Perhaps," Aramis studied the boy's face closely, "then again perhaps not. It all depends upon the situation."

"Do not give me the lecture... about all... of you having so much more... experience... than myself either." Hearing footsteps coming closer, d'Artagnan was relieved knowing that he didn't have to further pursue Aramis' line of questioning.

Getting answers from their youngest was going to be like pulling teeth from a wounded bear, and this time Aramis wasn't thinking about Porthos' last trip to see the dentiste.

++++

_On the way to the canteen_

"Watch where you're going, Musketeer!" Looking down his long nose at the older soldier, de Bailly wasn't impressed. He knew this one was Captain Treville's second-in-command but could have cared less. He was a Red Guard and didn't put up with anything a king's Musketeer would dole out.

"If memory serves..." Calling upon his aristocratic background, Athos' noble bearing was there for any idiot to see. The _idiot_ who should have recognized it was de Bailly. "You were the one who bumped into me."

Laughing, de Bailly exchanged amused grins with his fellow guards. "You're sadly mistaken."

"You're gonna be the one _mistakin'_ once Athos runs his blade through ya big mouth." Flexing his hands into fists, Porthos offered de Bailly a feral grin.

"Mon frere is correct." Unsheathing his sword Athos swished it in the air a few times. Pointing it then at de Bailly's broad chest, he waited for the other man's response.

"Dueling is illegal as you know, Musketeer." Sneering, de Bailly wanted nothing better than to accept Athos' challenge. But he had recently been reprimanded from his own captain for conduct unbecoming. Which only meant that he had been caught out and didn't cover his tracks in a bar brawl he had recently gotten entangled in. It would not due to be found out again. "You have quite the attitude. Tis a wonder it hasn't gotten you in trouble with Captain Treville."

"I do not like to think of myself as having an _attitude_ problem," Athos drawled. "I like to think tis just I have a personality you cannot handle." With Porthos' gruff laughter ringing in his ears, Athos refrained from joining in. It would have probably lent to the obvious confrontation de Bailly wanted but appeared to be trying to avoid.

"I don't have time for this!" Abruptly cutting off further exchanges with the Musketeers, de Bailly marched away.

The other Red Guards left behind were stunned at the unusual departure of de Bailly. Not knowing whether to confront the two Musketeers themselves, the decision had been taken out of their hands when Porthos growled at them. The remaining guards couldn't make their feet move fast enough, bumping into one another as they tried to catch up with de Bailly. 

"That was fun." Sharing amused looks with his friend, Porthos burst out laughing. Slapping Athos on the back they continued on their way.

_Back at the infirmary_

" _I TOLD YOU TO LEAVE BE!_ " Shoving Aramis away from him, d'Artagnan was shocked to see the marksman lose his balance and fall on his ass. Totally embarrassed at his display of temper, d'Artagnan couldn't look his brother in the eyes any longer.

"Bien," Aramis struggled to get back up, "Athos always said I was headed for a fall." Dusting off his leathers, he shook his head ruefully. "Just not at the hands of a friend."

"Apologies," whispered d'Artagnan, his face flushed with heat. "I don't know what came over me."

"I do," Devereaux announced, not unkindly. His eyes flitted back and forth between the two Musketeers. "You've recently woken up." He began ticking off his fingers. "You're in a great deal of pain." Another digit went up. "And Aramis keeps badgering at you with questions either you don't have the answers to or don't want to give right now." The last finger ended up pushing Aramis away from the Gascon. "Why don't you take a break and join your friends getting us food, eh?"

Reaching for his chapeau, hanging from a hook in the wall, Aramis held it loosely between his hands. "I will see you both shortly." Before stepping outside, d'Artagnan's quietly spoken words laced with tears reached him.

"Forgive me, Aramis."

++++

Shortly after that Porthos and Athos returned. Each carried a basket filled with food Serge had prepared for their lunch. Upon entering the infirmary, they noted Aramis was missing.

"Doctor," placing his basket upon an empty table, Athos removed the cloth covering it. Soon after the aroma of freshly baked bread filled the room, "was Aramis called away?"

"It was by mutual agreement that we decided he needed a break and I told him to join you." Wiping his hands on a towel, Devereaux was puzzled as to where Aramis had gone off to since apparently he wasn't with the other two men.

"In other words Mis was gettin' on your nerves eh, doc?" Chuckling Porthos reached into his basket for the plate of carved turkey Serge had given them. It was to be served up as today's special at the canteen. They had been lucky getting first dibs on it.

"That's one way of putting it," Devereaux muttered. Noting Athos had heard him, he tried to pass a silent message along. Tilting his head toward the boy, whom Devereaux finally managed to get sitting up on his own, he knew his message had been received by the soldier's slight dip of his head.

"D'Artagnan, Serge made a light chicken broth he thought you may be able to hold down." Placing the bowl in the lad's hands Athos sat down near the bed to enjoy his own meal. Observing Porthos and the doctor digging into their own lunch, he waited for his protégé to finish before asking a question.

The soup wasn't heavy on his stomach and went down easily. When d'Artagnan was done, he handed his mentor the empty bowl.

"Feel up to eating a slice of bread?" Not understanding why the Gascon had suddenly lost the use of his tongue, Athos pondered the gesture Devereaux recently made to him.

"Merci, the soup was enough, Athos." Wincing when he leaned a certain way, d'Artagnan breathed through his nose waiting for the pain to fade.

"There is more to Aramis being gone isn't there?"

Athos' quietly spoken words hit d'Artagnan hard in the gut. "I yelled at hm."

"Takes more than a good holler ta upset Mis, kid." Chewing on a piece of turkey, Porthos kept one eye on the whelp and the other on Athos.

"It wasn't just that," d'Artagnan admitted. "I shoved him away from me in anger and he fell."

Nearly choking on the food he just put in his mouth, Athos was dismayed to discover the truth.

"That's when ya," staring at the doctor, Porthos understood that the man was covering for the kid, "told Mis ta join us?"

"Mmmmm," swallowing a piece of bread, Devereaux nodded. "That was supposed to be the idea but if Aramis wasn't with you than I have no idea where he went."

"You do realize, d'Artagnan, that Aramis and Doctor Devereaux worked tirelessly to save your life?" Disappointed that the lad would react in such a way with one of his brothers, Athos wanted all the more to know what was going through the boy's mind.

Running his hands up and down his face, d'Artagnan felt the weight of the world resting on his shoulders. "I'll apologize again to him. He didn't deserve that." A heavy hand squeezed the back of his neck gently. "I truly didn't mean to shout at him the way I did," he shrugged. "It... it just happened." His breath hitched, as if he was on the verge of tears.

"I know Mis gets on my nerves at times too," Porthos said offhand. "Ya just gotta know 'ow ta shut 'im up."

"What's your remedy for that?" Interested despite himself, Athos quirked a brow high.

"Porthos' remedy is to throw me over his shoulder and drop me into a pile of hay." Having sneaked in, bearing several bottles of wine, Aramis winked at d'Artagnan. "I believe a drink is called for but only a very small amount for you, petit frere."

"Aramis..." Chocolate brown orbs locked onto the darker ones of his older brother. Trying to hide the tears that were gathering in his eyes, d'Artagnan's lips trembled.

Touching his forehead to the young Gascon's, Aramis forgave the lad. After all he's had his own demons to battle in the past. Apparently there were new ones to deal with in d'Artagnan's case. "We will get to the bottom of this but perhaps after you've had more time to recover eh?" Pushing a glass into the pup's unsteady hand Aramis helped guide it to d'Artagnan's lips. "Athos, care to give the toast?"

It didn't take Athos long to come up with one. Holding his glass high, his eyes on level with d'Artagnan's he announced, "To being _enlightened_."

++++

_Note:_

_Dentiste_ \- dentist

 _Quote: "I don't like to think of myself as having an attitude problem. I like to think it's just I have a personality you can't handle."_ \- Aunty Acid _(And don't you think this line sounds like something Athos would have really said? LOL!)_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention the part in chapter 2, where Aramis was in the infirmary with d’Art thinking about the _elephant in the room_ , that phrase hadn’t been coined until somewhere in the 1800’s. This story is set, of course, in the 17th Century so I’ve taken free license to use it here because it suited what Aramis was feeling at the time.
> 
> Also a slight hanky warning for this chapter. I think you all know what's coming.
> 
> ++++

_Same day, after lunch and the much needed wine – Garrison courtyard_

“Why did we av’ ta step outside?” Scratching at some hairs on his chin, Porthos sat down heavily on the nearest bench.

“Doctor Devereaux wanted to speak to the lad about things of a more sensitive nature without an audience.” At first Aramis wanted to argue with the physician that he should stay. When Devereaux appeared to have lost all patience with him, he backed off and followed the doctor’s wishes.

It hit Porthos then what Aramis had been referring to. Jumping up from his seat, he strode right up to the marksman. “Are ya tellin’ me that the kid was ra---.” Not being able to choke out the words, he turned his head to encounter Athos suddenly standing beside him. Having not heard his brother move, it startled Porthos that the older man was so close to him.

“I’m not saying anything of the kind,” Aramis huffed. “Doctor Devereaux’s just being cautious. We were too involved in mending d’Artagnan’s other injuries to even bring up the matter for consideration." Running a hand down the back of his neck, Aramis breathed in deeply. "Matter of fact until Devereaux brought it up I hadn't even considered it."

“I pray tis not so,” Athos whispered. “The boy’s been through enough pain and misery as it is.” More than concerned over his protégé’s welfare and mental health, Athos stared up at the infirmary’s closed door.

“Now that d'Artagnan's awake the doctor thought twas a good time to talk things over with him.” Biting the inside of his cheek, contemplating the seriousness of what was being discussed in the infirmary, Aramis hoped the doctor didn’t didn’t rattle the Gascon more than the pup already had been. Grant you the youngster seemed much better after having the broth Serge had made. The bit of wine Aramis had given the boy had put some color back into his face as well, which made him feel better because he had worried at how pale the lad had appeared.

Even though he too had been very concerned about the whelp, with the atmosphere lying thick and heavy over what Aramis had just told them, Porthos thought the best thing for it was to try and act normal. _Normal_ for them usually wasn't the same for any of their other brothers-in-arms. Treville could attest to that. So snickering loudly enough for Aramis to hear him Porthos tried to act like it was any other day. “Meant ta ask ya this earlier but didn’t wanna upset the kid.” Eyes zeroing in on his friend's backside, he pointed to the marksman’s rear. “’Ow’s your arse?”

“I wondered when you’d be getting around to that.” Pretending an interest in checking over his musket, Aramis tried to ignore Porthos’ teasing question.

Porthos, being Porthis, wasn’t going to let Aramis get away that easily. Just when he opened his mouth to take another shot at his brother, Porthos caught sight of the harried looking doctor rushing out of the infirmary.

"I can't calm d'Artagnan down!" Devereau shouted out to the Musketeers.

It only took those five words to make the inseparables race back up the steps, as if Captain Treville himself had been chasing after them for skipping parade duty. Nearly tripping over each other to get inside the infirmary, abruptly they skidded to a halt upon noting the badly shaking boy huddled underneath the covers.

Approaching the lad, as one would a startled animal, Aramis held up his hands to show the youngster that he didn't mean the Gascon any harm. Softly he said, "D'Artagnan, speak to me."

Shivering, curled up into a ball, d'Artagnan could only stare at his older brother.

"What the 'ell is that?" Growling his question out, as quietly as he could, Porthos glared at the doctor as if he personally held the physician responsible for the kids being like this.

Athos stepped forward, expression grim, mouth in a tight line. "We were not going to speak to the boy yet about what had been going on with him and _you_ ," he poked Devereau in the chest, "go and upset the apple cart."

"I didn't expect d'Artagnan's reaction to be so violent." Fingers running through his greying hair, Devereaux was shocked to find that his hands were shaking.

"Mon Dieu!" Looking over his shoulder at Devereaux, dark eyes flashing, Aramis spat, "What was the last thing you asked the lad?" Observing the young Gascon's quaking form, Aramis was at a loss on what to do.

"He assured me that nothing more had happened to him other than the obvious and I believed him." All the inseparables were listening to Devereaux impatiently so he tried to get everything out as quickly as he could. "It was when I spoke to him of the whipping he had endured that _this_ came about."

Gently taking the pup's face in his hands, Aramis locked his eyes onto d'Artagnan's pale features. "Doctor Devereaux did not mean to upset you, mon ami."

"I... I know." Barely capable of speaking, d'Artagnan shook Aramis' hands off, hiding his face in the safety of his blankets. But a hand reached out to pull them away and it was then that Aramis' long fingers cupped his chin gently. "Ronan... when he had me... whipped," d'Artagnan swallowed, "he said that my papa... probably... had done the... same thing to me as... punishment for doing something... wrong."

"That's what all this is about?" Voicing his surprise Porthos shut up when Athos hit him up the backside of the head. Rubbing at the tender area, he glared back at his friend.

"Be quiet," Athos hissed.

"Did your père do as Ronan suggested?" Releasing the young Gascon's chin, Aramis gingerly sat on the edge of the boy's bed. Even in the poor state d'Artagnan was in, he wouldn't put it past the pup to make a run for it.

"Non," d'Artagnan shook his head. "Ronan's question... brought up a memory... I'd rather... keep in the past."

Listening to their young one's admission, all the inseparables wore troubled expressions.

"Whelp," walking around to the other side of the kid's bed, Porthos pulled up a chair, "I've found that some memories are easier ta live with if ya air 'em out with friends."

Sad eyes peered out at the darker-skinned man. "These ones are better left buried with the dead, Porthos," d'Artagnan whispered into his blankets.

Looking up at Athos, who stood quietly at the foot of d'Artagnan's bed, Aramis nodded his head toward their youngest. Wanting, non, needing the other man to try and draw d'Artagnan out from whatever he was hiding from.

Wishing that Aramis would quit looking at him in quite that manner, Athos' chin dropped to his chest while trying to come up with a question that wouldn't spook his protégé. "D'Artagnan, by any chance has your behavior of late have any connection to your old life in Gascony?" That was the best he could come up with at present. Hoping this wouldn't set the lad off again, Athos anxiously awaited the boy’s response.

Instead of ranting and raving at them to quit digging for answers d'Artagnan pulled his blankets higher over his head, nearly covering it completely, so that only tufts of brown hair peeked out. Closing his eyes, his mind drifted to a time back in Lupiac where the only killing occurred happened when families needed to hunt for food or put an injured animal out of its misery. Except for that last milestone in his life when a killing led to d’Artagnan losing the closest person to his young heart.

_FLASHBACK_

“Charles!” Francoise yelled. “How many times have I told you to stay out of my flowerbed!” Watching her son frolicking amongst the colorful petals, her lips curled up into a bright smile.

“I’m not, maman!” D’Artagnan hollered back. “I’m trying to catch Monsieur Belleau’s goat!”

That was when Francoise saw the goat too chewing on her prized roses. Outraged, she ran to help her son chase the animal away. “That’s about the third time this past month!”

“And I told you and told you to call me _d’Artagnan_!” he rolled his eyes. The goat proved a slippery prospect, slipping easily out of his hands, while d'Artagnan continued running after it.

“Charles is what I named you,” Francoise shouted back, “and Charles is what you shall remain until I’m old and grey!”

In the midst of this chaotic scene a group of men emerged, coming off of the dirt road leading to their farm.

The strangers chuckled watching the woman and boy try to get the best of the goat. But it was one man in particular that had his eye on something more.

Getting off his horse Moise thought this a perfect opportunity to raid the house. Looking around before he entered, and not seeing anyone else about, Moise stepped onto the porch.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Hair all askew, Francoise was also hot and sweaty. Chasing after a goat was hard work when the sun was out in full. She should have been frightened, it being the two of them alone on the farm. Alexandre had gone to help a neighbor birth a foal. But feeling out of sorts she wasn’t about to put up with any funny business.

Having finally caught the beast, d’Artagnan released the squirming goat upon noting the strangers appear. Going to stand beside his maman, deep down he realized these men were trouble. Slipping his hand into her's d’Artagnan gripped it hard.

“I wouldn’t try any funny business if I were you.” Voicing her thoughts out loud she felt her warning fell on deaf ears, when the man stayed where he was. “My husband’s going to return shortly,” she announced with all the bravado of a woman who already knew her man wasn’t coming home anytime soon.

“Maman.” Tugging on her hand, d’Artagnan nervously looked at the other men that were still mounted upon their horses.

“Hush, child.” Her hand glided over the back of Charles’ head. Fingers entwining in his silky hair. “Let me handle this.” Observing the smirk cross over the stranger’s face she was conversing with, Francoise assumed he didn’t believe her words. Alexandre had always told her she was a poor liar. 

“Madame,” if Moise and his men weren't in such a hurry, he would find this situation very amusing, “we are short on food, money and weapons.” Eyes narrowing on the woman Moise was sure his message was getting across. “If you and the boy don’t put up a fuss we’ll get what’s needed and be on our way.”

The loss of food staples didn’t bother Francoise. They lived on a farm after all and grew their own vegetables so it wasn’t likely they’d starve. In a pinch, as well, a cow could always be slaughtered to provide meat for them to eat. However it was the thought of their hard earned money being stolen that spiked anger in her heart. A farming life was indeed a very hard one and they needed every penny accounted for. These men hadn’t shed blood, sweat and tears over the land like they’ve had to do. Non, Francoise wasn’t going to simply step aside for them. It was this that spurred her into doing something foolish.

Letting go of Charles’ hand, Francoise slowly approached the lean, tall man with the scruffy looking beard. She assumed that he was the leader, since the other men with him weren't speaking up.

Moise had to give the woman credit for standing up to him, while watching her take the few steps up to the porch.

It so happened that Kaarle, who was still mounted, didn’t trust her actions. Pulling out his pistol he trained it on her slim figure.

“Oh put that away!” Moise glared at his friend. “What harm do you feel the woman poses eh?”

“That would be your first mistake, Monsieur.” Pulling out a sharp knife from the pocket of her apron, Francoise threatened him with it.”

“There’s no need for violence, Madame.” His own weapon was still in Moise’ saddlebags. Relatively defenseless he was still able to use his hands, if needs must. Still it didn’t sit well with him if he had to hurt her. They traveled a rough path, true, but so far Moise and his companions had yet to hurt a woman or child. Reaching out to take the weapon away from her turned out to be his second mistake. Feeling the quick slash of the knife against his skin, Moise swore as blood spurted out. " _Merde!_ "

Three things happened at once then. The report of a pistol firing, the crumpling body of Francoise falling from the porch and d'Artagnan screaming in horror.

" _YOU IMBECILE!"_ Moise shouted. "That shot's going to have their neighbors come running!" Grimly, he glanced down at the fallen woman. Moise didn't have time to help her and could only hope she wasn't fatally injured. Dashing from the porch he quickly mounted his horse.

Kneeling by his maman's body d'Artagnan could see blood coming from a wound close to her heart. " _MAMAN!_ " Pushing aside her apron, he touched the area where the ball had entered. It was fast turning a bright crimson. His fingers came away covered in blood. " _MAMAN!_ " he kept on yelling, until he was rewarded when she opened her eyes to look up at him.

With a trembling hand Francoise reached out, gently patting Charles' tear-stained face. "Mon petit... Gascon," panting, she took a painful breath, "always remember... how I love... you."

"I love you too, Maman," he hiccupped in-between harsh sobs. It was too short an exchange between them for the next thing d'Artagnan knew their closest neighbors had rushed over. Monsieur Palomer fell to his knees beside d'Artagnan's maman. Watching the older gentleman glance over at his wife, who was hovering near Monsieur's shoulder, d'Artagnan noted a sad look pass between them.

Tears kept pouring down d'Artagnan's face and he could barely see through them. But he did hear Monsieur Palomer tell his wife to send for the town physician. When asked what happened, d'Artagnan managed to stutter out an explanation. Observing Monsieur gently lift maman up, he raced up the porch steps opening the door to their home.

Leading Monsieur Palomer to his parent's room d'Artagnan backed away in fear at noting his mother's waxy complexion. Upon hearing shouts from downstairs, he ran out to the landing. "We're up here, Madame!"

After Madame Palomer came up the stairs, she placed a comforting hand upon the boy's shoulder. " I sent someone to fetch the doctor and also over to Monsieur Deniau's farm for your père."

His papa, Mon Dieu! How could d'Artagnan have forgotten him? In a daze, his body still trembling with shock, he let Madame Palomer lead him back downstairs. She tried her best to distract him with inane conversation, but d'Artagnan had tuned her voice out completely lost as he was with his own worries.

The thundering crash of a door slamming open, nearly coming off its hinges, startled both Madame Palomer and d'Artagnan. The figure that ran past appeared but a blur to them. As if le diable were on his heels, the man took the steps upstairs two at a time. Realization hit d'Artagnan then. His papa had come home.

Waiting for word of his maman's condition, it felt like an eternity to d'Artagnan. In reality only an hour had past by. In that time Doctor Sauvageau had arrived to tend her which was the last d'Artagnan had seen of the physician. Everyone was locked upstairs with his maman. Even Madame Palomer had abandoned him, when the doctor said he needed her help.

Sounds of footsteps approaching him caught d'Artagnan's attention. Lifting solemn eyes up they met the tragic looking face of his papa. He didn't need to hear the words. D'Artagnan already knew that his maman had slipped away from him, going to a place where he couldn't dare hope to follow... at least not yet. As far as d'Artagnan was concerned, the world as he once knew it came crashing down around him.

++++

_Present Day_

Pulling both his friends away from d'Artagnan's bed, Athos' eyes however never once moved from the young Gascon's body huddled under the covers. "Twas a most unusual reaction." Noting Porthos and Aramis appeared deep in thought, at this juncture Athos would consider any ideas.

"Kinda odd remark the kid made ta me about _memories bein' better left off with the dead_." Crossing his arms, Porthos helplessly looked at his brothers for answers.

"Athos, I think you've hit the nail on the head about it being something that took place when d'Artagnan was a youngster back in Lupiac." Curious as to the mystery surrounding the boy all the more now, Aramis knew he wouldn't let this go until they got to the bottom of it. Especially if the lad's past is what's leading up to the Gascon offering his life without thinking of the consequences to the rest of them.

"Whelp's still a wet behind the ears youngster, Aramis," Porthos snorted quietly. Glancing at the silent boy, his face was filled with nothing but affection.

"Do I need to spell it out for you, mon ami?" Rolling his eyes, Aramis dragged Porthos closer. "Whatever _this_ ," he waved his arms in the air, "is. I'm sure it happened when d'Artagnan was but a mere child."

"We all have darkness in our pasts," Athos offered. "Why did we assume the boy's was a bright and sunny one?" He shrugged one shoulder. "Just because he isn't ancient as we are shouldn't mean that d'Artagnan led a charmed life."

"I ain't as _ancient_ as ya." With a wink and quick smile at Athos, Porthos broke away from them. "Gonna keep the whelp company now even if the kid doesn't feel like talkin'." Sitting down he pulled out a small carving knife from his jacket pocket. "Got some whittlin' ta catch up on anyways."

Arching a brow at Aramis, Athos retrieved a book that he had placed on the stand next to the lad's bed. Pulling up another chair he sat down opening the book up to the marker where he had left off.

Following the example set by his brothers, Aramis too sat down on the opposite side of d'Artagnan's bed. His choice of reading material differed from Athos' book on war strategies. Opening his bible up Aramis began to read a passage from the Gospel of John.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A slight warning here for a very angry Alexandre d'Artagnan getting mad at Charles. Some shaking is involved. But not for very long.  
> I apologize to any mothers out there in advance.
> 
> ++++

_Same Day, hours later – Garrison infirmary_

“You do know you’re going to clean that up?” Pointing to the shavings on the floor from all the whittling Porthos had been doing, Devereaux grimaced when the dark-skinned Musketeer simply laughed at him.

Having had his fill, for the time being, of John’s Gospel, Aramis had offered his services to the physician. Biding his time until their youngest awakened, he treated some of his fellow brothers who had been coming and going throughout the day.

Athos still thumbed his way through his book, periodically stopping to mark areas of importance to refer to later. Without lifting his head from the reading material Athos spoke up. “Porthos, you will kindly clean up after yourself as the good doctor suggested.”

“Oui, papa.” Grinning at his brother, Porthos felt Aramis pat his shoulder when the marksman passed his way.

Rubbing tired eyes, Athos set his book back down upon the table by d’Artagnan’s bed. Stretching his legs he walked over to peer out the window. Glancing over his shoulder at the others he said, “Dinner hour will soon be upon us.”

“If’n ya want ta I’ll stay ‘ere while ya grab a bite ta eat.” Looking at the finished piece in his hand, Porthos grunted his satisfaction. Now if the kid would only wake up he could surprise him with it. “Go on,” Porthos urged. “Visit Serge… raid his kitchen… and bring dinner back ‘ere for all of us.”

“Perhaps I’ll be able to eat more than just soup, Athos,” a young voice remarked quietly.

Three heads swiveled around to stare at the Gascon. None of them had realized that the boy was awake or when he had done so.

“’Bout time, whelp.” Towering over the pup, Porthos opened the palm of his hand so d’Artagnan could see what he had created out of a simple piece of wood.

Staring at the object, d’Artagnan’s face lit up. “For me?” Timidly reaching out to touch the fine craftsmanship d'Artagnan held it in his hands, in awe of the fine work Porthos had done.

“I sure didn’t make it for those two lumps on a log.” Indicating Aramis and Athos, Porthos laughed loud and long at the reactions of his brothers. It appeared neither of them enjoyed his comparison.

“Tis fine work.” Gently tracing the outline, d’Artagnan admired it. “I love horses." He dipped his head, as a bout of shyness overcame him. “Merci, Porthos.” When the huge giant ruffled d’Artagnan’s hair, he rolled his eyes in frustration.

"If'n the whelp can roll those doe eyes of 'is at me I'd say d'Art's feelin' better."

"D'Artagnan's eyes should be considered lethal weapons," Aramis added with a smile while joining them. "Ah!" Snatching the perfectly carved horse from the lad's hands, he examined the work as well. "A man of many talents is our Porthos." Gently he placed the carving back into the boy's palm.

"Tis definitely a work of art." Keeping one eye on the boy, Athos nodded his head at Porthos showing his appreciation for the gift he gave the pup.

"Can I go back to the barracks yet?" Not expecting a positive reaction to his question, d'Artagnan felt he had to try anyway. Sore and in pain beyond all imagining he would suffer in silence, keeping that all to himself if it meant getting out of here. Doctor Devereaux and his brothers probably would all gang up on him deciding to keep d'Artagnan locked inside the infirmary. Probably they wouldn't release him until he could grow a decent beard. By that time all his wounds would be healed.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," Devereaux murmured. Touching the young man's forehead with the back of his hand, he was pleased at how cool it was beginning to feel. "At least some things are back to normal around here."

"Is 'e sayin' we ain't _normal_?" Scowling at the doctor, Porthos' eyes followed Devereaux's movements around the infirmary.

Gripping Porthos' broad shoulders, Aramis gave them a gentle shake. "I believe he referred to d'Artagnan's temperature." Releasing his hold, his lips began twitching. "You have to admit, mon ami, that we have put Doctor Devereaux's skills to the test."

"I for one do not blame the man in the slightest for his remark," Athos slowly drawled. Apparently his remark was the source of d'Artagnan's amusement, as Athos heard his protégé's light chuckles. It didn't matter if the pup found Athos' words something to laugh at, because the youthful sound lifted his heart.

"Because we all know what a terrible patient Athos can be." Dancing out of the way, Aramis tried to avoid Athos swatting at him.

"Pfft!" Sticking his nose up in the air, Athos turned away from the marksman. "Pot meet kettle."

"When it comes right down to it, gentlemen," Devereaux said from the other side of the room, "all of you would win medals for being a doctor's worst patient ever."

"Does that include d'Art?" Sitting at the foot of the whelp's bed, Porthos slyly winked at the youngster.

"Just because he's the youngest in the entire regiment doesn't exclude d'Artagnan." Having said that, Devereaux went over to examine another Musketeer that had just come in sporting a sparring injury.

Since d'Artagnan was currently sitting up Athos took the opportunity to sit on the side of the lad's bed, bringing him closer to the Gascon. Placing his hand on the boy's arm, Athos tried to gain the pup's attention.

There was an expression on his mentor's face d'Artagnan had been the recipient of many times before. Turning his head away he stared down at the carving as if it alone could give him strength. Determined not to fall apart, d'Artagnan braved looking into those blue eyes. "I owe all of you an explanation. I know that." What he wasn't sure of was if he could do this. Closing his eyes against the painful memories, d'Artagnan mentally opened the locked box inside his head where he kept them. "When I was only nine years of age I watched maman get shot by malandrins that came onto our property." Hearing the intake of drawn breath from all three of his friends, d'Artagnan struggled for the words to come out. "The doctor... the doctor couldn't save her." Holding back tears that threatened to embarrass him, he lowered his eyes once more focusing on the gift of his carved horse. "Papa... papa and I were devastated at her death."

The inseparables had no knowledge of any of this and were horribly shocked, listening to the young Gascon's former childhood come to light.

"I need ta sit down." The whelp's loss hit Porthos hard in the gut. He remembered the time, back in the Court, when his own mother sickened and died. It had left him all alone in the world to work out his own destiny. Thieving and living by his wits is what kept him alive back then. Porthos carved out a future for himself, just like he had carved that horse for the kid. Of course he'd been much younger when she passed away but you never forget something like that. It marks you. Sometimes for the rest of your days.

"Porthos?" Noting his brother appeared quite shaken d'Artagnan wanted to reach out to comfort him, but his older brother wasn't sitting close enough.

"I... lost my own mother when I was five," Porthos admitted. When the whelp's eyes began filling up with tears, he got up from the bed. Bending down over the kid, just as d'Artagnan leaned his body slightly forward as much as his injuries allowed, they touched foreheads. Remembering the women that had given them a chance at life and were no longer with them, both men's eyes became wet.

The atmosphere became heavy with sadness. Athos and Aramis hovered over the lad's bedside, trying to surround the young Gascon with their love.

Swiping at his eyes, Porthos let his hand linger on the young Gascon's head. “You and I will have to trade some stories about them.”

Shyly ducking his head, d’Artagnan replied softly. “I’d like that very much, Porthos.”

Uncomfortable, and not knowing what exactly to say, Athos arched a brow at Aramis silently asking the younger man to use that glib tongue of his.

Rubbing his hands together, Aramis decided it was a good time to change the subject. “Why do you not tell us what you’d like for dinner, lad and Athos will make sure Serge prepares it.”

This wasn't exactly what Athos had in mind when wanting Aramis to speak up but he could work with it. “Correction,” Athos interrupted. “Aramis and I will coerce Serge into preparing it.”

So it was that both d’Artagnan and Porthos told their brothers what they’d like.

Watching them leave d’Artagnan snuggled again under the covers again, closing his eyes. This was ridiculous. He had barely woken up yet already felt exhausted and d’Artagnan hadn’t even stepped a foot out of this bed.

Recognizing how worn the whelp appeared, Porthos tucked the edges of the blankets around d’Artagnan’s slim shoulders. Sitting back down he began to hum a quiet melody from a song his own mother had taught him long ago. It worked its magic on the kid, lulling the boy to sleep. But d’Artagnan’s restless dreams turned into nightmares.

++++

_FLASHBACK_

“ _WHY IN THE WORLD DIDN’T YOU STOP HER!_ ” Alexandre screamed at his son. During his own emotional breakdown, he didn’t care that the boy cowered on the ground at his feet.

Covering his head with his hands, d’Artagnan rocked back and forth keening out quietly his own anguish. What was he going to do? She had been his rock. Oui, papa was too in his own way, but his maman was the glue that held them together as a family. She was always there to sooth an injury or to give a kind word. Maman made sure d’Aragnan ate enough, wore the right clothes and warned him not to play with the older boys that were always causing trouble.

In his grief, Alexandre’s rage escalated. Bending down he picked up the child and began shaking d’Artagnan. He was oblivious to the torrential downpour of tears leaking out of his son’s eyes. " _I TRUSTED YOU TO BE THE MAN OF THE HOUSE WHENEVER I'M NOT AROUND!_ "

Too upset and scared on top of that, d'Artagnan couldn't speak. Thank heaven for Madame Palomer's timely appearance.

"Alexandre!" Beside herself with sadness at the passing of her friend, Clarisse hadn't expected to come out on the porch to watch Alexandre furious with the boy. "Stop! You'll hurt Charles!"

Realizing Clarisse was correct, Alexandre let his son go. Turning his back on Charles, he headed for the house. He had to pull himself together as there would be family to notify and funeral arrangements to make. Of his boy he gave little thought.

Going over to Charles, Clarisse gently took the boy's shaking hands into her own. "Charles, don't mind your father right now." Frowning she stared at the door closing behind Alexandre. "You've both suffered a terrible loss and it will take time to come to terms with it."

"It... it happened," d'Artagnan hiccuped, "happened... so fast."

"What did?" With an arm around the child's shoulder, Clarisse lead him back to the porch.

"Maman cut the one man... with her kitchen... knife." Rubbing his face with an arm, when more tears threatened, Charles leaned into Madame's side. "When that happened... another man shot her."

"See there," hugging the boy close Clarisse' heart clenched listening to what had happened, "that's what you have to tell your father." Guiding him up the porch steps Clarisse hugged Charles again. She was upset that Alexandre should take his anger out on poor Charles. When he discovers what happened, it was to be hoped that the man would realize there was nothing the boy could have done to save his mother. How Alexandre thought a child of nine could have even dealt with those men was something that astounded her. Clarisse prayed that her husband could calm Alexandre down. Perhaps she might suggest that Charles stay with them for a time, while Alexandre makes arrangements.

Lost in his own misery, Charles blindly followed Madame back into the house. He heard voices speaking low at first. Then the sounds of his papa crying stopped him in his tracks. He had never heard nor seen his papa cry before. His maman, oui. She was a woman and a very emotional one at that, having a very tender heart. So whenever his maman cried Charles never thought too much upon it.

Keeping hold of the boy's shoulders, Clarisse stood a ways back from where the men were. The doctor had already left a half an hour ago. He had informed Alexandre that he'd be sending over the undertaker shortly. That was one reason why she wanted to take Charles back home with her. Watching the undertaker taking Francoise away would only bring the lad more pain. He didn't need to see that. "Charles, I want you to gather your things to stay with us for a short time."

Still in shock, Charles didn't really understand why he couldn't stay here with his papa. "I don't... don't want to leave... papa alone."

"Trust me it would be better this way." Patting his shoulder, Clarisse gave the boy a gentle push toward the staircase. Observing Charles hesitate at the foot of the steps she gave him a gentle smile of understanding, motioning with her hand for him to go on up. Knowing that she had told the lad to explain to his father what had happened, Clarisse took it upon herself to speak up. She just couldn't stand to see Alexandre punish Charles for something that was out of his control. Approaching the kitchen table where Jérémy sat comforting Alexandre, Clarisse made it known to the men what had taken place that day. She also informed them that Charles would be staying with her and Jérémy until Alexandre had taken care of things. Clarisse had no need to discuss this decision with her husband for she knew that Jérémy would have agreed with her anyway. That was what she loved about him. They were of a like mind, most of the time.

In a daze, Alexandre heard her words but remained silent. He felt as though this was happening to someone else. None of this seemed real. Knowing that his lovely wife would no longer be calling him into supper from a hard day in the fields, he hung his head down and wept again. Part of him knew not to blame Charles but he couldn't help himself. The lad had been here with Francoise. She had needed Alexandre and he had been off helping a friend. Who had been here to help Francoise? Certainly not a nine year old child. Ah! He had to stop thinking like that. Charles had to be hurting just as much as he was. For the life of him though Alexandre couldn't bear to look at his son right now. It would be a kindness to be separated from Charles, for a little while at least until the funeral.

Having finished packing what he needed, Charles slowly dragged his feet down the stairs. With sad eyes he watched papa talking to the Palomers. When Madame came over to take his hand, Charles kept hoping his papa would talk with him before he left. Disappointed when that didn't happen Charles told himself to be brave despite trembling lips, while fighting off the threat of tears once more.

"Come, Charles." Tugging on the boy's hand, Clarisse led him back outside. She didn't bother waiting for Jérémy, knowing that he would soon be home. "It won't be so bad staying with us."

Walking beside her Charles kept craning his neck, trying for just a glimpse of his papa but to no avail. Papa had let him slip away without a word. To Charles it felt more like he was slipping away from his papa's life.

++++

_Present Day_

" _PAPA!_ " Sitting up suddenly, d'Artagnan nearly screamed with the pain that had caused his numerous wounds.

Startled at the outburst, Porthos nearly fell out of his chair. "Merde, kid!" Watching d'Artagnan on the verge of hyperventilating, he placed a hand on the pup's chest. "Calm down. Breath slow like. Nice and easy does it." When satisfied the whelp had his breathing under control Porthos cocked his head to the side, studying d'Artagnan's unnaturally pale face. "Care ta talk about it?"

"Not right... right now," d'Artagnan shakily replied. "Perhaps later."

"Athos and Mis should be comin' back soon." Feeling he could get away with it, since the kid wasn't at his best, Porthos ruffled the pup's hair again. "I've worked up a mighty appetite."

"No surprise there." Trying to shake off the last vestiges of his nightmare, d'Artagnan teased his brother. "You're a bottomless pit when it comes to eating."

Patting his stomach, Porthos laughed. "Can't deny the truth of that." When his brothers arrived with dinner, Porthos was the first one to dig into the food.

"Did something happen to d'Artagnan while we were gone?" Noting the young Gascon wouldn't look them in the eye, Athos became concerned.

"Bad dreams I guess." Reaching out for another drumstick, Porthos' hand was slapped away by Aramis.

"Leave some for the rest of us." Waving his own drumstick in warning Aramis bit into it.

"Nightmare?" Like a dog with a bone, Athos wasn't going to let that go.

"Woke up screamin' for 'is père." Washing down his food with some wine, Porthos watched his older friend's eyes narrow on the whelp and darken with worry.

"This is all tied up with the loss of d'Artagnan's mother," Athos muttered. "I'd bet my commission on it."

"I think we're up to the task of helping our youngest." Having snatched another piece of chicken from Porthos' hands, Aramis relished its flavor. " _All for one_..." he winked.

"Thought our motto was - _Every man for 'imself._ " Fighting with Aramis over the last piece of roast chicken Porthos won. He held it up in the air like a prize, gaining a shy smile from the kid who was polishing off his own food.

"That too." Smiling devilishly, Aramis went to tempt the Gascon with dessert.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See notes at bottom.
> 
> ++++

_Same day, later in the evening – Captain Treville’s office_

Having left his friends to stay with d’Artagnan, Athos went to seek council with the captain. With the older officer having known the d’Artagnan family, he figured perhaps Treville would be able to shed more light on the situation. Since Athos didn’t want the captain to know that his protégé was recklessly risking his life for them in the process, he would just have to be careful with his questions. With a quick rap on Treville’s door Athos strode inside.

Lifting his head up from the documents Treville had been perusing, he smiled at the sight of his lieutenant. “At least you knocked.” Tossing his papers to the side, he beckoned the younger man to take a chair. “Young Remy came crashing in here to announce that he had finished grooming my horse.” Smiling at the memory, Treville relaxed in his chair. “When I gently reprimanded him about his forgetting to knock,” he began chuckling, “Remy turned as red as a beet.”

“Remy is always eager to please us.” Having also been the recipient of the boy's willingness to help where needed, Athos had to agree. Taking a seat he made himself comfortable. “The lad believes he will make a fine addition to the Musketeers when Remy's old enough.”

“Tis to be hoped we're able to fulfill his dream one day.” He could tell by the look on Athos’ face that something was troubling him. Crossing his arms, Treville leaned back against his chair. “All right get it off your chest whatever it is.”

“Nothing earth shattering,” Athos admitted. "Tis just something d’Artagnan had mentioned that I wanted to ask you about.”

“I’ve been wanting to see him but Louis’ has bogged me under with visiting dignitaries,” Treville grimaced. “The king wishes my presence at every single meeting.” Tapping his fingers on the wooden surface of his desk, Treville sighed. “How is the lad doing?”

“Properly awake now and beginning to take in nourishment.” Thinking perhaps this hadn't been one of his better ideas, Athos started to get up. When Treville quirked a brow and sternly pointed to the chair he hesitated, immediately sitting back down.

“What did d'Artagnan have to say that has your curiosity peaked?” Upon asking that, Treville noted Athos' usual mask of indifference was firmly back in place.

Skirting around the captain’s question, Athos asked his own. “Could you tell me a little about what happened after Madame d’Artagnan passed away?” Putting it out there like that, Athos realized that Treville would only have more questions later. Intuitively knowing that the answer to the young Gascon's actions began when his protégé lost his mother, Athos found no other recourse than to follow through with what he had begun here.

It was hard not to notice that his lieutenant hadn’t answered Treville’s direction question. He’d let it go for now and answer the younger man’s query. “I don’t know what d’Artagnan could possibly have told you that would make you ask that.” Brows drawing together, Treville frowned. Staring at the top of his desk, he concentrated on the pattern of the wooden grain for a minute before answering. “By the time I received Alexandre’s brief letter informing me that Francoise had died, and having gotten permission to go back to Lupiac, I missed the funeral.” Closing his eyes, Treville remembered the grief that filled him upon learning of her death. “I never felt right about that but as you know a soldier’s life is not one’s own. At least Alexandre knew I’d not make it in time, having once served as a soldier himself.”

“What happened after your arrival there?” Anxious to get to the bottom of d’Artagnan’s behavior, Athos grew impatient.

“I’m not sure what you want or need to know, son, but it was a sad reunion for me,” Treville admitted. “Those three had been so close that at times I had envied Alexandre’s decision to quit soldiering to become a family man.” Deep in thought, Treville tried hard not to think upon how changed his friend had become back then. Death had a way of doing that to a person and Alexandre was no exception. “I didn’t recognize the man Alexandre had become. He was distant, lost in his own pain.” Lifting a hand up in the air, Treville then dropped it to lie idle on top of his desk. “Poor d’Artagnan I felt was oftentimes left out in the cold.”

And there it was. Could the answer be that simple? Non! Nothing ever was or so Athos believed. Here perchance was what he was hoping to discover. “Could you elaborate more on that part, sir?”

Blue eyes narrowed on another pair that were just as intensive as Treville’s own. “Athos, you ask me these questions and what am I to think of them, eh?” Tilting his head to the side, he studied his lieutenant’s pensive face. “It doesn't take a genius to realize this is all wrapped up with d'Artagnan's current injuries. So why don’t you come clean?"

 _Clean_. Snorting to himself Athos thought there had been nothing _clean_ about any of this so far. Reluctantly, the words were pulled from him. “It had been pointed out to us that some of the pup’s actions are not what they should be.”

“Pointed out?” An arched brow followed those two words. “Since when do any of you three need something _pointed out_ to you in regards to something being _off_ ," Treville snorted. "All of you must be losing your touch."

“Apparently in this our instincts were sadly lacking.” Muttering his words so softly, Athos wasn’t sure if the captain had even heard them. Staring at the floor, deep in thought, it took him a moment before realizing Treville had been speaking to him. Jerking his head up so fast that Athos made himself slightly dizzy, he took in a deep breath to steady his emotions.

“What’s the boy gone and down now?” Treville favored all the inseparables, even though he couldn’t show it outright or the rest of the regiment would become resentful. But where d’Artagnan was concerned it was entirely a different kettle of fish. Having had a soft spot for him ever since the lad had been a petit, Treville had to hide his favoritism for him. Sometimes though the boy made it deuce hard to do whenever d’Artagnan did something that made Treville very proud.

Squirming in his chair, Athos was bereft of words.

“Oh come now, man,” Treville laughed. “Everyone knows you’re not much for long speeches.” When Athos was about to get up once more, he pointed a finger at the younger man. Instantly the lieutenant regained his seat. “Just hit me with it.”

“D’Artagnan apparently does not hold his own life dear.” After admitting that much, Athos went into detail of the last few missions the four of them had been on together. Also divulging what Doctor Devereaux's thoughts were pertaining to the Gascon's behavior, which had opened the inseparable’s eyes in the first place. Then Athos wounded up speaking upon this last assignment that had gone to hell in a handbasket in a blink of an eye. When Athos had finished, he caught an indefinable look in Treville’s eyes.

“I would do this myself since I’ve known d’Artagnan since childhood but you three work with him the closest. I’ll trust you lot to handle this.” Stabbing Athos with a penetrating look, it was almost as if Treville could see into his lieutenant's heart. “All I could add to what I’ve already said was that I had seen a growing distance between Alexandre and d’Artagnan during my stay with them. It greatly disturbed me but I had no time to ferret out the cause.” Staring at a point past Athos’ shoulder, Treville knew he hadn’t really answered the soldier’s question to satisfaction. “Having used up most of my leave traveling back home I couldn’t stay much longer. Whatever it was I sensed going on between the pair I put down to Francoise’ death and prayed things would improve as time wore on.”

Hesitant to stand back up for fear of Treville’s finger pointing at him again in a manner that brought Athos back to his own childhood, he waited for dismissal believing this was about as much of the story as he was going to get for the time being. He was eager to begin digging into the boy’s past, with d’Artagnan’s cooperation of course. "Merci, Captain. Now perhaps we would be able to discover why d'Artagnan's been sacrificing himself for us." After Treville indicated he could depart, Athos dipped his head. Walking away the older officer's parting words lingered in the air.

“Bonne chance.” Observing the door click shut behind the lieutenant, Treville too stood up to walk over to his liquor cabinet. He should have offered a glass of whiskey to Athos while he had been here. Bien, there was always next time which Treville figured would come sooner rather than later.

++++

_Next Day – Garrison infirmary_

“I swear I’m gonna kick Faye’s ass from ‘ere ta the city.” Angry at the careless words the other Musketeer had been crass enough to say to the whelp, Porthos was ready to rip Faye a new one.

Entering the room Athos took one look at his larger brother and nearly stepped back outside again. What in the world had happened in the short time he had been away? Staring hard at Aramis’ and d’Artagnan’s expressions of dismay, it appeared something had definitely gone amiss. Though the latter two men didn’t seem as mad as Porthos was acting.

“Dare I ask if the world is ending?” Noting Doctor Devereaux frantically shaking his head at him from the other side of the room, Athos’ right brow arched high. Apparently he was supposed to let the matter drop, judging by the physician's action. Resting a pensive gaze on his protégé once more his glance then slid over toward Aramis.

“Faye was his usual tactless self,” Aramis murmured, turning his head away from Athos’ blue-eyed glare. “Took one look at the lad’s wounds and said it was a pity all he had sustained on his face were scrapes and bruises.” Sitting beside the youth, Aramis bumped his shoulder lightly against the Gascon's.

“Yeah,” Porthos grunted. “Said women love a man with scars on ‘is face.” Running a finger over the jagged mark which ran over his left eye, Porthos wasn’t sure he’d agree with Faye on that one.

Knowing he should say something profound right about now, Athos cleared his throat several times. “The best you can hope for some people is that their stupidity isn’t passed down to their children.” Listening to everyone’s mild amusement, including the doctor's, Athos lips curled upward. “Now let us all forget about Faye," he announced firmly. Though the tone of his voice conveyed that he could care less about the other Musketeer, and what the man had said, Athos had every intention of cornering Faye at some point today to have a little talk with him. "Porthos and I only have today free left to spend with you, d'Artagnan."

"That sounded rather daunting." Clapping his hands, Aramis winked at d'Artagnan as they both shared amused smirks. But his grin quickly faded upon noting the lad wince with pain when he moved. Without saying a word, Aramis went to fetch another pain draught for the young Gascon.

Not wasting any time Athos immediately took the marksman's place. Not beating around the bush he blurted out, "Lad, do you trust us?" He was pleased with the youth's instant response.

"Absolutely!" Puzzled as to the unexpected question, d'Artagnan glanced at his mentor with something akin to hurt in his eyes. "Why would you ask such a thing of me, Athos? Haven't I proved that to all of you?"

"Tis because I want you to know that you could tell us anything and we would never judge you." Laying a warm hand on his protégé's arm, Athos gave it a gentle squeeze.

Hearing the unspoken plea for him to come clean, d'Artagnan heaved a great sigh that seemed dragged from the depth of his soul. "Aramis, you better hold off on that medicine," he called out. "Otherwise I'll be falling asleep in mid sentence when I try to answer Athos' question."

" _Question_?" Playing the innocent, Athos cocked his head to the side. "I did not ask you anything, pup."

"Coyness doesn't become you, mon frere." Sitting down near Porthos, Aramis smiled at the older man.

Leaning against his mentor, d'Artagnan pushed his discomfort aside and delved into the past once more.

++++

_FLASHBACK_

Months had past since he had lost his maman and d'Artagnan had all the appearance of a lost waif. His papa worked the fields like a man possessed. At times it seemed to him that d'Artagnan was all but forgotten. There were times when his papa even forgot to prepare meals for him. Young though d'Artagnan was he enjoyed cooking. Watching his maman in the kitchen had been one of his happier memories that he had of her. When she realized his interest, it was then that maman began to teach him. If it wasn't for her efforts, d'Artagnan would probably be starving. Finding himself in the kitchen to cook something for himself had now become the norm.

Mr. and Mrs. Palomer would come to check on them from time to time. Madame especially would cluck at d'Artagnan like a mother hen when she discovered that his papa hadn't fed him. It wasn't unexpected for d'Artagnan to find freshly baked bread or a hot cooked meal appearing on their doorstep. Often Madame would come over to try mending his torn clothing, seeing that his papa hadn't done so or bought anything new for d'Artagnan to wear.

With the distance growing ever further between them, d'Artagnan began to feel like he was unwanted. That he didn't matter any longer in his papa's life. _Expendable_ , in other words. Starting to wish that he had been the one those malandrins killed, instead of his poor maman, d'Artagnan began thinking his own life was worthless.

Between doing his chores, and often cooking for himself, d'Artagnan hardly ever had time for his friends anymore. Those same friends didn't understand why he couldn’t hang around any longer. To tell the truth though d'Artagnan felt older than his years. Death tended to make you grow up in a hurry. Feeling like he didn't have anything more in common with them, d'Artagnan slowly pulled away from his friends.

What really cut him up was that his papa had promised to start teaching d'Artagnan how to use a real sword once he turned nine. Since his maman's passing that promise had passed too. He had wanted to learn so badly that one day d'Artagnan braved his papa's wrath and asked him outright to teach him swordwork. Finding out, much to his sorrow, that he shouldn't have bothered at all when his papa lashed out at him with harsh words.

"I've no time for you, boy!" Alexandre shouted, waving his arms. "Can't you see I have to carve out a living for the two of us?"

"But you promised." Biting his lip, d'Artagnan took a few steps back from his papa. Remembering shortly after his maman had died how papa had shaken him in anger, d'Artagnan never could be sure of his papa's reactions.

"Just like Francoise," Alexandre muttered. "Stubborn as the day is long. Never letting anything go." Whirling on his son, he leaned down to look d'Artagnan in the eyes. "Do as you're told and don't get underfoot!” he shook an angry finger at the child. “Do you hear me, lad?"

"Oui... oui, papa." Gulping in air, holding back sobs, d’Artagnan did as his papa commanded with a very heavy heart. All his dreams of eventually becoming a Musketeer were turning into dust, without anyone to teach him the skill he so badly needed. Feeling like hiding in the barn to cry his eyes out, d’Artagnan dragged himself outside to face the beginnings of a new day.

The sun mockingly cast its rays over their farm, like it had many times before. Except it used to make d’Artagnan want to shout for joy. Not so anymore. It would be a very long time before he’d begin to think himself worthy of anyone caring for him again. Even when it did happen, d’Artagnan knew it wouldn’t last for long.

Words his maman had once said came to mind. _Hold close to your heart the things you love most, Charles, and they would stay with you forever_ ,” she would often say to him. Bien, d'Artagnan had held onto the _thing_ he loved most but a shot near maman’s heart had taken that chance away from him _forever_.

After d’Artagnan had completed his morning chores, he took a break. Taking an old worn path, that began behind their barn, he went for a walk. A house came into view, only because d’Artagnan knew where it was located, nearly hidden from all the shrubbery and trees surrounding it. This was the home belonging to Monsieur Lawrie.

Sometimes d’Artagnan would visit with him. Listening to adventures the old veteran would spin, of past glory days serving under King Henry IV, made d’Artagnan feel like he was fighting right alongside Monsieur. Up to that time the only sword d’Artagnan had wielded had been a worn out, toy wooden one his papa had made him when he was around six years of age. They had mock battles between them, but demands of the farm had taken up most of his papa's time. It left d'Artagnan to battle alone pretending with an imaginary playmate, as his friends had no interest in that pursuit.

On this day Monsieur Lawrie had a surprise for d’Artagnan. Knocking on the door the old vet greeted him pleasantly and ushered him inside. Monsieur stepped away, walking over to a bureau where laid a gleaming object. What that object had been remained a mystery to d’Artagnan until Monsieur drew closer to him.

“Hold out your hands.” Kindly smiling into the youngster's face, Verrill observed the child timidly doing as asked. Placing his gift into d’Artagnan’s hands, he watched the stunned expression cross the boy’s features.

Running a finger up and down the shiny metal blade caused shivers to run up and down d’Artagnan’s spine. “This is for me?”

“You’re the only one standing here,” Verrill grinned, “so it has to be for you, lad.”

Gripping the sword in his right hand, d’Artagnan lifted it in the air. “My very own sword,” he whispered in awe.

Opening the door, Verrill led the boy back outside. "What say you we put that sword arm of yours to the test?"

++++

_Notes:_

_Quote: “The best you can hope for some people is that their stupidity isn’t passed down to their children.”_ – is from Aunty Acid.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See note below.
> 
> ++++

_Present Day_

_Early afternoon – Garrison infirmary_

Relaxing on a chair, Aramis casually rested a booted foot on the edge of d’Artagnan’s bed. “God bless Monsieur Lawrie.” Murmuring his thanks under his breath, he crossed himself. Apparently they had the old veteran to thank for d’Artagnan’s skill with a blade. He and his friends had been under the mistaken impression that the young Gascon’s father had been the one to have shown their pup how to wield a sword. Goes to show one that you can’t assume anything in this life.

Hovering over the kid Porthos wanted to ruffle d’Aragnan’s hair but the lad stabbed him with a look that said - _suffer the consequences if you dare_. Snorting, Porthos would have liked to have seen the whelp do that. Due to the state d’Artagnan was currently in, the younger man would be lucky not to plant his face on the floor the minute he tried to stand on his own. “Ya did good for yourself, whelp, considerin’ everythin’ and all.” Never having known his own father, or where the man had gotten off to after skipping out on them, Porthos felt an even stronger bond with d’Artagnan than ever before. The pup had been just as fatherless as he had. 

“It was only because of Monsieur Lawrie’s tutoring, infinite patience and encouragement that I could handle a sword with any degree of competency.” Thinking back to how the older man had been free with his time, and despite having an old war wound he dealt with, d’Artagnan had been very lucky that Monsieur had agreed to teach him. If anything, it appeared that Monsieur had been eager to do so. Eyes beginning to water at the long ago memory, d’Artagnan felt a large hand settle at the back of his neck.

“’Ey now, we don’t need any waterworks around ‘ere,” Porthos laughed. “I don’t think the doc would appreciate it.” Giving the kid’s neck a gentle squeeze, he saw the boy trying to collect himself. “We didn’t mean ta dredge up another bad memory.”

Swiping a sleeve across his damp eyes, d’Artagnan gazed into the depth of Porthos’ darker ones. “Non.” Shaking his hair away from his face, he tremulously smiled. “It simply brought up a happier time in my life.” Still sitting up he gingerly moved his body closer to Athos who still sat beside him. D’Artagnan then rested his head upon his mentor’s shoulder. “I miss him.”

Tilting his own head, so that it rested against his protégé’s, Athos whispered in the lad’s ear. “Your father?”

“Non,” d’Artagnan huffed, quite annoyed that Athos got it wrong. “Monsieur Lawrie.”

Noting Porthos and Aramis trade snickers, Athos glowered at them. Placing his arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulder he felt the boy lean further into him.

“I’ll always miss him, Athos.”

“I just had a letter from Verrill,” a gruff voice announced, startling the younger men.

Four heads turned toward the open door where their captain now stood wearing an amused grin.

“You touched upon his name with a hint of familiarity.” His arm firmly attached to the lad’s shoulder, anchoring d’Artagnan to his side, Athos glanced back and forth between the older Gascon and the younger one.

Entering the room Treville’s sharp gaze landed on the youngest of their number. “Verrill is another friend of mine from back home. Though I’m not to sure if he mentioned that to d’Artagnan.” Pulling up a chair he joined the others near the lad’s bedside. “We served together under King Henry IV just as I did with Alexandre.”

“But he’s quite old, sir,” d’Artagnan blurted out without thinking. Ducking his head away from Treville’s twinkling blue eyes, he was embarrassed at his words.

“To a child of merely nine perhaps Verrill appeared that way but the man’s only four years older than myself.” Tapping d’Artagnan’s knee to gain the boy’s attention, Treville smiled at him. “Verrill was pensioned off at an early age because of an injury he sustained in the war. Between the two of us we’ve managed to nicely keep up with our correspondence.”

"D'Artagnan, you left Lupiac to come to us when you were all of eighteen." Narrowing his gaze at the pup, Aramis was puzzled about something. "Did Monsieur Lawrie still appear ancient to you by then?" His eyes sparkling with mischief, Aramis watched d'Artagnan try to search for the right words to say. When the youth uttered not a sound, Aramis chuckled. "Perchance you still had it in your head that Monsieur was still and old man and didn't pay attention to the fact that your teacher wasn't as ancient as you had thought."

"Aramis." Drawing out the marksman's name, Athos hoped to silently get across to his brother to stop teasing their youngest.

Aramis had brought about a good point that d'Artagnan had never considered before. Feeling a bit silly now for his poor judgment it had brought up something important that d'Artagnan needed to learn - that there were skills to sharpen other than ones pertaining to just the sword. Wanting to steer the conversation in another direction, d'Artagnan had a question for the captain. “Did you know about the lessons Monsieur Lawrie gave me?” Slipping out from under Athos’ protective hold, d’Artagnan sat up straighter wincing as the movement pulled at the healing skin on his back.

“Of course I did.” Grinning, Treville remembered when Verrill’s letter arrived informing him of how he had taken d’Artagnan under his wing. Instructing the child in the rudiments of swordplay wouldn’t have been an easy task, as Treville knew firsthand how stubborn the young Gascon could be. Still he couldn’t have been happier at the news. "In fact after I found out I applauded Verrill's efforts on your behalf."

Having written to the Palomers to inquire as to how Alexandre and d’Artagnan were getting along, Treville hadn’t received a promising response. He only resorted to writing the couple because if he had written Alexandre directly Treville knew his friend wouldn’t have been truthful with him.

Pleased that at least, with Verrill in the boy’s life, d’Artagnan had someone that would set him on the path he was meant to be on. Even back that long ago Treville had realized the potential the lad had, having been witness to a few mock battles between father and son when d'Artagnan was barely six years of age. A few years later, on one of his rare trips back to Gascony, Treville had witnessed the child's agility and speed when both Alexandre and d'Artagnan had put on a show for him. At that time the lad was the grand old age of eight and Treville had wondered how d'Artagnan would handle a real sword when the time actually came and not a wooden one. Talented, oui, d'Artagnan had had that in spades but the boy needed a guiding hand which, fortunately, turned out to be Verrill. "You may be surprised to know that he asked after you, d'Artagnan." Noting d'Artagnan's face light up, Treville grinned.

"My last letter to Monsieur Lawrie had been right after I received my commission," d'Artagnan admitted. "I wanted him to know that I had realized my dream. His presence that day would have been the icing on the cake but as it turned out Monsieur was with me in spirit." Feeling guilty that it had been awhile between letters, d'Artagnan's head hung down. "Time's slipped away from me, and I know how lax I've been in my correspondence with him."

Quite interested in learning more about Monsieur Lawrie's role in his protégé's life Athos, however, was very curious as to Treville's appearance in the infirmary. From his understanding, His Majesty needed the captain at the palace. "Sir," Athos interrupted, "not that we're not pleased to see you but I thought you told me that your presence was required at the Louvre."

"Are you hiding out with us?" Aramis quipped. "I mean we won't tell if you don't." Dark eyes sparkling brightly, he smirked.

Throwing both arms up in the air, Treville shook his head. "The older I get the more I realize no one else has any idea what they're doing either and everybody is just pretending."

Brows shooting up to his hairline, Athos was taken aback at the captain's words. Anyone could see the frustration built up in Treville's craggy features. Something untoward must have happened to put the older officer in a snit.

"I couldn't take another minute of Louis talking out of one side of his mouth to his guests." Brows drawing together, Treville's lips tightened. "He has no intention of following through with his promises to them because he hasn't a clue how to think on his own." Ruefully shaking his head, Treville caught the shrewd look Athos threw him. "Since Richelieu's death things have been in disarray and Louis' going around wearing blinders, pretending things are back to normal."

"When they're completely the opposite," offered Porthos. He had been unfortunate enough to witness their young monarch throwing a royal fit more times than he cared to count, since the cardinal's passing. Mind you Porthos could have cared less that Richelieu was dead and buried. The one great satisfaction that Porthos had was that they had managed to turn the tables on the cardinal. The one satisfaction he didn't have was that Queen Anne had kept silent on the matter. Considering that Richelieu had caused them nothing but heartache and grief, Porthos felt that the man's crimes should have been laid at King Louis' feet. Bien, you couldn't always get what you wanted.

Slapping hands on his knees, Treville leaned forward closer to d'Artagnan. "My frustration with Louis gave me the excuse I needed to visit with my youngest Musketeer." Eyeing the clean linens wrapped around the boy's chest and back, Trevilled winced in sympathy for the pain the lad's endured. "How do you feel, son?" Holding up a finger that he waved in front of the youth's face he added, "And don't say your _fine_ because I'll know tis a lie."

Glancing first at Aramis, then Athos and Porthos in turn, d'Artagnan realized honesty was called for. "In a lot of pain but Aramis and Doctor Devereaux have taken great care of me."

Pleased the lad had been truthful Treville smirked. Standing back up he said, "Of that I never had any doubt, son." Staring at d'Artagnan's wounds, his eyes darkened. "I have several units out searching for Ronan and his men. I'm confident we'll be adding them to our Bastille shortly."

"When you do, Captain," Aramis' own eyes sparked with fury, "I want first dibs at Ronan."

"'Ey, Mis," growling deeply, Porthos disagreed with his friend, "It should be my fist that connects with 'is mug first."

"If we are picking numbers," drawled Athos, "d'Artagnan's my protégé so I believe my sword should draw first blood."

Listening to his friends argue over who would get a piece of Ronan first, d'Artagnan's thoughts drifted to his past once again and his time being Monsieur Lawrie's student.

++++

_FLASHBACK_

“That’s right, d’Artagnan, good boy!” Verrill had just begun teaching the lad how to handle a blade and was very impressed on how fast the youngster was catching on. “You’re quite light on your feet which is very useful whenever fighting your opponent.”

Huffing, angry at himself for a misstep, d’Artagnan blew hair out of his eyes. “But not fast enough to move away from you for your sword smacked me on my hind end.”

Grinning from ear to ear, Verrill’s gruff laughter fill the front yard where they were practicing. “There’s fast, lad, and then there’s _fast,_ ” he winked. “You’ll learn the difference with time.”

Remembering the words Monsieur had spoken about prior to starting his lesson, d’Artagnan concentrated on keeping the older man at a distance with his blade. Making a surprising lunge at his teacher, with a slight kicking motion he extended his front leg. Using his forward momentum with his back leg, it aided d’Artagnan getting the best of Monsieur.

Saluting the child with his own sword, Verrill thought that he’d better be on his own game or d’Artagnan would soon grow cocky. _Cocky_ could get you dead under any circumstance and he wouldn’t want to see that ever happen to the lad.

Not being able to maneuver the way he wanted to, due to an injury to his left leg, Verrill made up for it in other ways. He certainly wouldn’t let it get in the way of tutoring the boy in the art of swordsmanship. Extending his own sword arm, Verrill attempted to attack d’Artagnan despite being hampered by his own slight limp.

Prepared for the challenge d’Artagnan parried, blocking the older man’s weapon by deflecting the blade away from d’Artagnan’s upper shoulder. Dancing away, he whirled around in a circle laughing. “I did it! I did it!” He was so delighted with what he had accomplished that d’Artagnan didn’t pay any attention to what Monsieur was doing. But another hard smack to his butt gained his attention quickly.

“If you had been in a true fight for your life, boy,” Verrill snapped, “you would be lying on the ground bleeding out!” Stabbing the child with an angry look, Verrill shook his sword at the lad. “Never turn your back on an enemy until you know you’ve defeated him.”

“I’m sorry.” Heat suffused d’Artagnan’s face as he hung his head down in shame. From elation to embarrassment in only a few seconds. It was a good lesson to remember and one he wouldn’t care to repeat in the future. From now on he’d pay strict attention. If for any other reason he didn’t want Monsieur Lawrie to become disgusted with d’Artagnan and quit teaching him.

“I’m quite sure you are, lad.” Gazing into d’Artagnan’s sunkissed features, Verrill smiled kindly at the contrite boy. He was becoming very attached to the youngster. In his estimation, Alexandre needed to wake up and see what a precious soul was left into his keeping. After all it wasn’t just Alexandre that lost someone he loved. If the man left it too late, one day Alexandre would discover that d’Artagnan was a fully grown man ready to take on the world. To be sure, Verrill knew he wasn’t idly investing his time in d’Artagnan only for the lad to remain on the farm. Non. He fully expected the young Gascon to eventually leave Lupiac behind him, setting his sights on Paris to become a Musketeer. “We’ve worked up a sweat,” Verrill commented lightly. “What say you we take a break, eh?”

“As long as we pick up where we left off.” Shyly glancing up into Monsieur’s amused face, d’Artagnan quickly ducked his head. Hearing the man’s loud snort, he peeked out at him from behind long hair that his papa continually threatened to cut.

“Come on then, child.” Ushering the boy into his house, Verrill gave d’Artagnan a gentle push towards the kitchen. “Let’s see what I can scrounge up for the two of us before letting you face off with me again.”

Not expecting to be served lunch, but happy all the same, d’Artagnan said, “Papa’s busy fixing our wagon that lost a wheel so he’ll most likely work through lunch and won’t miss me,” d’Artagnan grinned. “So many thanks, Monsieur.”

In Verrill’s opinion he doubted Alexandre would have missed d’Artagnan no matter if it were breakfast, lunch or dinner. “Bien,” he casually shrugged, “I’m a dab hand in the kitchen so you shouldn’t have any complaints.”

“I could help you if you’d like,” d’Artagnan offered.

“Tis a fine offer, lad, and I do believe I’ll take you up on it.” Placing items on the counter that Verrill would be needing, he laughed. “God knows I’ll need the energy to keep up with you.”

“Don’t worry.” Reaching for some eggs that were in a basket d’Artagnan, with some bravado, cheekily said, “I’ll go easy on you.”

Their joined laughter filled the tiny kitchen. This would end up becoming a usual routine for them and one memory d’Artagnan would always hold close to his heart.

++++

_Note:_

_Quote: "The older I get the more I realize no one else has any idea what they're doing either and everybody is just pretending."_ \- From Aunty Acid.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A slight warning that Aramis gets a bit angry with his friends in this chapter.  
> Lady_Neve, now don't you get too upset over this either. Tis a storm in a teacup. LOL! 
> 
> See note below.
> 
> ++++

_Present Day_

_Later in the same day, toward the dinner hour_

_Garrison infirmary_

The infirmary door was kicked open wide by the burly Musketeer. Entering the room, carrying three baskets filled to overflowing, Porthos grinned at Athos who simply gave him a nod of his head. Aramis was nowhere to be seen but Porthos caught the whelp’s pleased expression.

The aromas wafting inside the room filled d’Artagnan’s nostrils, making his stomach growl. For the first time in days he felt his appetite truly come back with a vengeance. Now, though, his friends probably wouldn’t believe him if d’Artagnan told them he could eat a horse.

“This ‘ere is compliments of Serge once again.” Placing his bounty upon a table, Doctor Devereaux had cleared for him, Porthos lifted up several towels covering the food. Then a thought hit him. “’Eh, Doc, this ‘ere table’s clean and all right?”

Huffing, Devereaux placed his hands on his hips and began tapping a foot. “I am not living in the dark ages here,” he snapped. “Tis been disinfected.”

Grumbling under his breath, Porthos began removing plates from one of the baskets. He heard sounds behind him but didn’t think anything of it, assuming it was the kid and Athos talking. When a hand reached around him to pluck a shiny red apple from one of the baskets, Porthos caught the hand. Turning around he was astonished to find a sheepish Gascon standing there. “Mis is gonna kill ya for gettin’ outta bed,” he warned gently.

Biting into the apple with relish, d’Artagnan grinned up into his older brother’s face. “Athos didn’t try and stop me.”

Having noticed Athos looking anywhere but at him, Porthos began chuckling softly. “Aye! Both of ya are gonna get it.”

Deciding he too was famished, Devereaux took a proffered plate from Porthos and dug into the fare Serge had prepared for them. “D’Artagnan, I feel, is more than able to get out of bed for a short amount of time.”

“I hate to be any of ya when Mis gets back.” Filling two plates up, one for himself and the other for Athos, he took both over to where his older brother sat. Sitting in the chair opposite him, he kept one eye on the door and the other on their youngest. He wanted to be well out of the way if any fireworks were to go off when Aramis arrived. “Speaking of Mis,” he stabbed a curious look at Athos, “where’d ‘e get off ta this time?”

“Treville needed to speak with him about setting up a new schedule for our recruits.” Digging into the rabbit stew Serge had made, Athos was pleased with its flavor.

As if the marksman's ears had been burning, in he came. Swiping his chapeau off, tossing it carelessly on an empty bed, Aramis' long fingers ran through his unruly curls. It was then that his eyes registered the fact that their young Gascon was no longer in bed. It was empty, something that Aramis hadn't expected. Casting around the room for the lad, his eyes narrowed on the slim figure tottering slightly beside Doctor Devereaux. "What pray tell do you think you're doing, d'Artagnan?"

Taking another bite of his apple, d'Artagnan tried his best to appear innocent. "I'm eating my apple."

"If you're not careful you'll be eating it on the floor," Aramis huffed. It didn't help him noting Athos' smirk and Porthos' laughing eyes. Turning his concern upon the doctor, Aramis' lips pursed. "Why did you allow it?"

"The lad felt strong enough and I didn't feel d'Artagnan would come to any harm by it." Going back to his own dinner, Devereau missed the marksman's dark eyes flash. Still he felt the weight of the Musketeer's gaze settle on him, even without looking up. Lifting his head Devereaux couldn't contain his next words upon noting Aramis' frowning in disapproval. "I am the doctor here... need I say more?"

Caught in the middle, d'Artagnan offered a small compromise. "Aramis, would you feel better if I sat down on that chair?" He pointed to the empty one beside his mentor.

"I'd like it if you planted yourself in that bed better." Indicating it with a stab of his finger, Aramis waited to see if the pup would heed his suggestion.

Sighing dramatically, with hope in his eyes, d'Artagnan stared over at Athos who appeared to be not paying any attention to them. Catching the older man's eyes, d'Artagnan silently urged Athos to side with him on this matter.

"Do not drag me into this, pup." Finishing his meal, Athos sent his protégé a meaningful look. "After all I do not need a case of indigestion which this know doubt would give me if I added my two cents into the pot."

The stubborn jut of d'Artagnan's chin told Aramis, more than any words could convey, that their youngest had made a decision and not the right one in his estimation.

Thinking to help out their young one, Porthos got up and went over to where d'Artagnan was. "'Ere kid." Shoving a plate of food into the whelp's hands, Porthos steered the lad toward the chair d'Artagnan was going to sit on. Sending Aramis a warning look, Porthos waited until the kid settled himself. Sidling closer to where Aramis stood he bumped his shoulder against his friend's. "Whelp seems better ta me. Ya shouldn't be so 'ard on 'im."

Flapping his arms in the air, like an angry mama bird, Aramis' frustration mounted. "Why doesn't anyone see things my way in this?" When Porthos rolled eyes at him, Aramis literally saw red. "That's right!" he snapped. "Keep rolling your eyes... maybe one day you'll find a brain back there!"

Oh this wouldn't do, Athos inwardly sighed. Trading a worried look with d'Artagnan, he just may have to step in and diffuse the situation against his better judgment. Porthos, he could tell, was holding himself back admirably from taking a swing at Aramis for the man's uncalled for remark.

Staring down at his half eaten meal, d'Artagnan's appetite waned. He certainly didn't expect Aramis to act in this manner. Getting out of his chair, d'Artagnan steadied himself against his mentor's shoulder. Climbing back into bed, he hoped Aramis would be satisfied with his capitulation.

Noting the pup hadn't finished eating Athos turned a disturbed face, one eyebrow sharply raised, upon Aramis' stern expression.

"Athos, we could have so easily lost him." Silently pleading with his brother to see it from Aramis' perspective, he held his breath waiting for his friend's response.

"Of that I am well aware," Athos drawled. With Porthos taking up his chair again, Athos heard the other man's soft growls. That alone told him his large friend was still seething over Aramis' careless words. "But d'Artagnan's luck has held true to form. Our pup will bounce back from this like he has done with every trial that has crossed his path so far."

"In other words," walking over to the table that held their food Aramis peered inside the baskets, "I'm overreacting."

"Nah," Porthos scoffed. "What gave ya that idea?" The sarcastic quality of his voice alone was meant to needle the marksman and he hoped it did so.

Grimacing, Aramis glanced back at his best friend. "Apologies, mon frere." Pulling up another chair he sat down beside Porthos. "You of all people know what I'm like when someone close to me is hurting."

"Yeah," Porthos smiled. "Unfortunately I do." When Aramis' cautious eyes lifted up to meet his own, Porthos' booming laughter filled the room. "Apology accepted, Mis."

"I believe you should spread your _apologies_ around to the others as well." Pointedly staring first over at the young Gascon, Athos' eyes then slid over to where the physician stood getting something from the medicine cabinet.

"I humbly apologize to the both of you." Feeling better when d'Artagnan smiled back at him, Aramis glanced at Doctor Devereaux. Honestly he never meant to step on the man's toes but that's exactly what he had done.

"I'll forgive you this time, Aramis." Placing the items he had been looking for on a counter, Devereaux leaned back against it. "Just remember who it is you come to when _you_ are feeling ill."

"Oy!" Clapping his hands and stamping his feet, Porthos caught the subtle threat the doctor was making and he loved it. "Better watch your p's and q's from now on, Mis."

"I deserved that," Aramis said good naturedly. Getting up he walked over to the table where the food was he reached for a plate. "Serge did us up proud again I see."

"Only the best for the whelp." Winking at the kid, Porthos went for another helping of food.

A bit drowsy, from the little he had eaten, d'Artagnan slid further down into bed. Feeling sheets being pulled over his shoulders, slumber soon claimed him.

++++

_FLASHBACK_

_Outside Monsieur Lawrie's residence_

Impressed with the child's capabilities, Verrill kept up with a steady set of training exercises for d'Artagnan. He was dead certain that the boy would make a fine Musketeer one day. Perhaps eventually rising to a higher position in the regiment. Priding himself on being a decent judge of character, Verrill felt that d'Artagnan would become a leader of men and not one that was led around.

"I have to get back home now." Having been gone most of the afternoon, d'Artagnan knew that he still had to groom their horses yet. He didn't want to give papa a reason to berate him for not doing so. Of late his papa's temper had been a thing to fear. He hadn't struck out at him but the look in papa's eyes from time to time unsettled d'Artagnan. He hadn't needed it spelled out for him that papa would have preferred maman had lived over himself. Sadly, that had not been the case and d'Artagnan had been made to suffer for it.

Knowing what was behind the lad's sad eyes, Verrill hugged d'Artagnan. "Go on with you. We can train more on the morrow."

"Merci." With a grin and a wave at the older man, d'Artagnan raced off for home.

++++

_The d'Artagnan residence_

As soon as he stepped foot inside the house, d'Artagnan knew he was in trouble. Papa's face resembled a thundercloud.

"Where the deuce have you been?" His son needed a good shaking again but Alexandre refrained from doing so this time. "I needed you back here over an hour ago!"

Not sure what had transpired since the time he had been gone, d'Artagnan was afraid to even ask.

"Rafale gave birth a short time ago and I had expected you to be here to help me with her foal!" Running an agitated hand through his hair, Alexandre blew out a hard breath. "I nearly lost them both, boy, because you weren't here to help me!"

Feeling as low as one could get, d'Artagnan belatedly remembered his promise to papa about being on hand to help with Rafale's delivery since he was the one good with horses. Also he recalled that papa was going to let him name the newborn foal. Now d'Artagnan didn't think he'd get the chance. "I'm sorry, papa. I didn't realize it was so close to her time," he bit his lip. "May I ask what you named the foal?"

"Onyx," Alexandre snapped. "She's as black as the ace of spades."

Thinking that name suited the foal well then, d'Artagnan nodded his approval.

"I don't know what you've been doing with your spare time lately," pointing a finger at his son, Alexandre waved it warningly, "and frankly I don't care! What I do care about is that you'll pull your weight around here as I expect!"

"I'll make sure to check with you before I leave the farm again," d'Artagnan meekly added.

"Do that!" Abruptly turning away from the child, Alexandre hurried back outside to check on the foal again.

His dark eyes followed papa's steps until the door slammed shut, rattling the old frame. Dejected, d'Artagnan didn't know what to do with himself for the time being. With the horses still needing to be groomed, he doubted his presence would be welcomed in the barn at present. Knowing some wood still needed to be chopped, d'Artagnan decided he'd tackle that to kill some time. After that he'd take a chance at the barn. Hopefully, by then, his papa wouldn't be so angry with him.

++++

_Notes:_

_Quote: "That's right, keep rolling your eyes... maybe one day you'll find a brain back there."_ \- from Aunty Acid.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to get this chapter up this past Monday, which was my birthday, but RL demanded otherwise. But here it is.
> 
> Another slight warning: If you hated Alexandre so far in this story, he doesn't improve with time.
> 
> Also to all of you that celebrate the holiday... A VERY HAPPY THANKSGIVING!
> 
> See note at bottom.
> 
> ++++

_Present Day_

_Next Day, early morning - Garrison infirmary_

Having come to a mutual agreement with both Doctor Devereaux and Aramis that he was fit enough to go back to his barracks, d'Artagnan was dressed and out the door before either of the older men decided to change their minds.

Retrieving his chapeau and weapons belt Aramis followed his young friend. Lightly running down the wooden stairs he caught up with the lad, slowing his pace to match the young Gascon's. "Now, d'Artagnan," placing a hand on the pup's right shoulder, Aramis halted the youth's stride, "I wanted to remind you that we are _all_ here for you." Holding up a finger, when it appeared the lad was going to argue the point, Aramis clucked his tongue. "Do not try to move too fast or lift things right now. And for heaven's sake whatever you do don't ruin my fine needlework!" he tacked on for good measure. Which, of course, earned him a roll of eyes from d'Artagnan.

An amused smirk started to cross d'Artagnan's face. Then upon remembering that Aramis had worked long and hard on a good portion of the lacerations covering his back, his smirk faded. Feeling the pull of healing flesh against his leathers, even bandaged as they were, d'Artagnan decided he'd be a _good_ Musketeer and obey Aramis' demands.

He was glad that he had been unconscious for most of the time his brother had stitched him up. D'Artagnan doubted he'd have been able to handle the pain otherwise. "Mon frere," he smiled, watching his older friend's lips pull in a tight line. More than likely Aramis had assumed that d'Artagnan was going to argue with him. "I have every intention of taking great care. Do not worry so."

Folding his arms, Aramis' brow arched. Knowing he was currently emulating Athos gave him the incentive to say something else that was on his mind. "This is _YOU_ we're discussing, d'Artagnan. I'm always concerned. So are Athos and Porthos." Searching for the right words to convey to their youngest how they all felt, Aramis reached out to place his hand on the lad's left cheek. "We love you and it would literally break us if we ever lost you."

Coming up behind the whelp, Porthos' brows drew together. He caught the words Aramis had said to the kid. Wanting to add his own sentiment, he moved into the lad's line of vision. "Sometimes Mis makes a lot of sense, d'Artagnan."

"Only _sometimes_ , mon ami?" Dark eyes dancing, Aramis grinned at the darker skinned man. He was actually surprised when there wasn't a comeback from the usually friendly giant.

"Kid, ya sure you're gonna be all right on your own?"

"You guys act like I'm going on an assignment without you," d'Artagnan huffed, rolling his eyes again, "and not that I'm simply over at the barracks."

"Ya 'aven't 'ad a good run of luck lately," Porthos unnecessarily pointed out.

"Tis an understatement if ever I had heard one." Striding up to where his friends were Athos tilted his head to the side studying his protégé's pale features.

"What's put you in a snit, Athos. You look ready to run someone through with your blade." Pushing his chapeau slightly back away from his forehead Aramis' eyes ghosted over the older man's angry face.

"Maybe Serge kicked 'im outta the canteen." His loud bark of laughter had other Musketeers turning around to stare at Porthos.

"Is it true that the older you get the crazier you become," glaring at a spot past his protégé's shoulder, Athos shook himself from his reverie, "or is it just me?"

"Rather a strange question," d'Artagnan said. It didn't take him long to discover what brought about his mentor's dour mood as two Red Guards stumbled past them. The two guards in question gave all of them, especially Athos, a wide berth. It wasn't much of a stretch to figure out that Athos' words pertained to the stumbling duo that rushed past them.

"Scared them, did ya?" Laughing all the more, Porthos got a charge out of watching the Red Guards run for their lives.

"Damn idiotic fools!" Muttering under his breath Athos noted d'Artagnan's wide-eyed look. "Those two nitwits challenged me to an illegal duel and I was in the mood to oblige them." Pacing back and forth, Athos was irritated with himself.

"You must have won judging by the way they ran off with their tails tucked between their legs." Amused, Aramis too watched the Red Guards as they nearly knocked down Serge in their haste to escape. The latter had been carrying a basket full of potatoes which ended up on the ground, when the guards nearly swept Serge's feet out from under the old cook.

Running a hand down the side of his face, Athos shook his chaotic thoughts off. Focusing his concentration on the pup, he began to worry. "Would you care for company, d'Artagnan? I believe our last chess game was interrupted."

"Truly you three are sooooo obvious," d'Artagnan snarked, irritation clearly in his voice. The way his brothers were acting, one couldn't be mistaken for thinking d'Artagnan was made out of spun glass.

"Did you just call my best men _oblivious_ , d'Artagnan?" From atop his balcony, Treville observed the inseparables hovering over their youngest. Right then and there, he realized that the poor lad needed rescued.

"Not exactly." Sliding his glance from his friends to the captain, d'Artagnan noted Treville's quick wink in his direction which he was sure his friends had missed.

"You three," pointedly staring each of the inseparables in the eye, Treville hid a grin, "need to give d'Artagnan some space."

"That's what we're afraid of doing." Speaking softly in the captain's ear, Aramis tried to keep his voice low enough so the pup didn't hear him.

"D'Artagnan, go on to your barracks, son." As his youngest Musketeer acknowledged Treville's order with a slight dip of the lad's head, he had to stop the inseparables from trailing after their friend.

"Sir," Athos spoke up, "d'Artagnan and I were going to play a game of chess."

"I didn't hear the lad inviting you to join him now did I?" Knowing he was making his lieutenant uncomfortable, Treville cut himself off from saying anything further. "I have a short assignment for all of you anyway. You can visit with d'Artagnan after the mission's completed." Listening to his men grumble, Treville nearly changed his mind. "I need to discuss this in my office." Walking away he didn't hear the sounds of heavy footsteps following in his wake. Turning around, needless to say, Treville was peeved that none of them had moved an inch. "Gents... that means _NOW_!"

++++

_Garrison stables_

Instead of going to his barracks right away, d'Artagnan took a detour to see his horse. Knowing there was always a fresh supply of apples kept aside for the inseparable's mounts, d'Artagnan reached into a sack and pulled out a nice red shiny one for Zad. Holding the apple in his left hand while his horse munched on it, d'Artagnan stroked Zad's shiny black mane with his other.

"I want to so badly put behind me what happened, Zad." Leaning into Zad's side more, d'Artagnan closed his eyes. "Now I've got three babysitters around me," he let loose a small chuff of laughter. "Or they would be if I let them." Lifting his head up d'Artagnan acknowledged Jacques, as the other Musketeer entered the stable.

"I've just gotten back and heard what happened to you, d'Artagnan." Lips pulled together tightly, Jacques frowned. "Are you okay?"

"The question of the day it would seem," d'Artagnan remarked lightly. "My back is covered with Aramis' fine stitching and as you can see I've suffered some bruising on my face and other areas that you can't see."

" _Ouch!_ " Wincing, Jacques took in the drawn features of the young Gascon. The lad was one of few people that Jacques realized would say he was _fine_ and you knew that it was a total lie. Taking a leaf out of the inseparable's book perhaps wasn't the best thing for d'Artagnan to do. Then again what did Jacques, or any of them, expect with their youngest being the fourth inseparable? It went with the territory. "If there's anything you need help with let me know."

"Merci. I appreciate that, Jacques." When Zad finished his apple d'Artagnan threw the core away into an empty bin. "Do me a favor and don't mention you saw me here," he grimaced. "I'm supposed to be in my barracks."

"Playing hooky so soon." Chuckling, Jacques walked out of the stables with the Gascon by his side.

++++

_Garrison barracks_

It wasn't unusual for d'Artagnan to find himself alone in the barracks. The other Musketeers he shared it with were always coming and going at all times of the day and night. They were either on missions for Captain Treville or, as Aramis would do from time to time, go into the city to visit a paramour.

Today d'Artagnan was glad for the quietness that surrounded him. A fleeting thought passed his mind on how the captain had put off his friends from coming after him, particularly Athos who wanted to play chess. As quickly as that thought struck him, it slipped away. Shrugging out of his doublet d'Artagnan let it fall to the floor kicking it out of the way, not feeling like picking it up.

D'Artagnan didn't realize how the short walk, from the infirmary to the stable and then his quarters, would have taxed his strength the way it had. But it did and now all he wanted was to lie on his bed. Carefully he got into it laying on his side. Of late his life seemed surrounded by chaos, complicating his friendships with the inseparables all the more. Having told his brothers a little of his childhood, d'Artagnan remembered another traumatic episode when he had just turned thirteen years of age.

_FLASHBACK_

"Will he be all right, Madame?" A sickness had passed through half of Lupiac, felling old and young alike. So far d'Artagnan had been one of the lucky ones that hadn't contracted the illness, as well as their neighbors the Palomers. Not so lucky had been his papa.

Madame Palomer had been tending to his papa ever since he had become ill. She knew what needed to be done as Madame had been through this tending to another of their neighbors. Having spoken with the doctor, who had just left, Madame had gone into the kitchen to heat up the bricks again that were to be placed in papa's bed to help him ward off chills that had wracked his body. Following after her d'Artagnan dragged his feet, overcome with worry for papa.

Noting the woebegone young face before her, Clarisse's heart went out to the boy. "Alexandre's over the worst part, child." Covering the warmed bricks with towels she left the kitchen, knowing the lad trailed behind her. "Even his chills have died down. With the medicine the doctor just gave me it should take care of the slight fever left in Alexandre," Clarisse smiled at the boy, "and then, Lord willing, he should be back on his feet shortly."

"Could I stay with him do you think?" Barely able to make out his papa huddled under a pile of blankets, d'Artagnan bit his lip still overcome with anxiety. He couldn't lose another parent. He just couldn't. Despite Madame's reassuring words to the contrary, d'Artagnan kept thinking back to the time when maman had been lost to him.

Knowing it would ease the ache in the lad's young heart Clarrise murmured quietly, "You may stay but not too long... understand?"

"Oui, Madame." After she had left, d'Artagnan placed a chair near papa's bed and sat down. Remembering some of the prayers maman had drilled into him, he began silently reciting them in his head. When papa cried out in his sleep for maman, d'Artagnan reached out with trembling fingers to touch papa's warm face. 

Blinking tired eyes open, Alexandre's blurry vision began clearing up. Upon noting his son sitting beside his bed, he scowled. "It was a dream then," he mumbled. "Only a damn dream!"

"A dream, papa. What was it?" Leaning in closer to make sure he heard every word, d'Artagnan eagerly waited. He hadn't been able to speak with him, since papa had come down with the sickness. Madame wouldn't let d'Artagnan in the same room for fear of him catching it. So any time spent with papa was precious to d'Artagnan.

"Francoise was here," Alexandre snapped. "Sitting beside me... right where you are now." Closing his eyes, Alexandre turned his head away from the boy. "I wanted it to be her... not you. Never you." In a gruff voice he added, " _Get out! I don't want you here!_ " Dreams were a terrible thing he thought. Sometimes they seemed so very real, as the one his fevered mind had conjured up. Upon waking, it was her Alexandre wished to see... not his son.

Slowly standing back up, d'Artagnan turned away from papa. Hunched over he walked toward the door like an old man, with papa's last words ringing in his ears.

"You're a poor replacement for her."

++++

_Present Day_

Having fallen asleep, d'Artagnan wasn't sure what had woken him up. Eyelids sticking together like glue, it took him several tries to get them opened. When he had accomplished that, d'Artagnan noted an all too familiar figure sitting on the bed opposite him. "Athos?"

"Mmmmm." Momentarily lost in his own scattered thoughts, Athos was startled when d'Artagnan called out. "We got back earlier than Treville anticipated from delivering a parcel for him."

Gingerly sitting up d'Artagnan could only stare at his mentor. His brain slightly foggy, he couldn't think of a thing to say.

"I gather our chess game is to be put on hold awhile longer," Athos remarked dryly, his blue eyes settled on the chessboard in the corner of the room. The pieces were left exactly in place from where they had abruptly ended their match. It was then that Treville urgently needed to see them thus leading up to their last disastrous mission. He knew none of the other Musketeers would dare touch the chessboard until d'Artagnan and Athos took the game to its ultimate conclusion. So he was pretty confident that no one had messed with it.

"Apologies." Unsteadily d'Artagnan gained his feet. Whipping his head around he glared at Athos, silently sending his mentor a warning not to help him. Even if it looked like d'Artagnan was about to fall face first onto the floor, his Gascon stubbornness refused the aid.

Observing the way d'Artagnan swayed, Athos was a mind to jump off the bed and grab the lad. If he were to follow his natural inclination, his only accomplishment would be to gain the youngster's ire. A Gascon temper was not to be trifled with. He knew that very well from dealing with Treville whenever King Louis upset the older officer. Unfortunately that happened more often than not. Which made the inseparables shudder every time the captain shouted - _you three... my office... now!_

Going over to where a bowl of clean water sat d'Artagnan splashed some on his face. Drying off with a towel he moved over to where the lone chessboard sat. Sitting down he studied his white pieces, trying to puzzle out his next move. When Athos didn't join him right away he cocked a brow, tilting his head to the side to stare at his mentor. "You may want to come over here and get yourself out of check, mon ami."

Taking lazy strides over Athos pulled up a chair. Eyeing the board, his lips turned down in the corners. Apparently his memory was proving shoddy, as he didn't remember leaving the game that way.

Reading the unspoken thoughts floating through Athos' head, d'Artagnan grinned. "I doubt any of the men would have risked your wrath in moving any of the pieces." Listening to his brother's grunt of displeasure, d'Artagnan looked forward to besting him. "I guess I don't have to tell you that in two moves tis... _checkmate_."

"Cheeky brat," Athos gently chided. He may not win this match, which now appeared a certainty, but he'd win something infinitely more precious. The fact that his protégé was beginning to come back to them.

++++

_Note:_

_"Is it true that the older you get the crazier you become, or is it just me?"_ from Aunty Acid.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See notes at bottom.
> 
> ++++

_Late morning - Garrison courtyard_

“What's he trying to do to me? Give me a heart attack.” Huffing in annoyance, Aramis watched their young Gascon spar with Athos. At least that was what the lad was trying to do, hampered as d’Artagnan was from his numerous wounds. Keeping up with Athos one had to usually be on top of his game. Wondering what possessed Athos to even agree to doing this, Aramis would have a few scathing words later for his brother as well. “The pup’s going to ruin all those stitches I painstakingly sweated over.” Turning to look at Porthos, he ran agitated fingers through his hair. “The lad promised me he’d behave.”

“Oy, Mis!” Refraining from putting a huge smile on his face, Porthos knew that would only make Aramis madder than he already was. “Ya honestly expected the whelp ta take your words ta heart?”

Shaking his head at the other man, Aramis marched over to where d’Artagnan and Athos were practicing. Planting his feet firmly in the dirt, arms crossed, wearing a deep scowl, Aramis waited for the two men to notice his presence.

Swords crossed, Athos breathed into his protégé’s ear. “Do not look now but someone’s on the war path.” Glancing sideways at the marksman, without Aramis knowing he did so, Athos inwardly groaned at the look on his brother’s face. “I would say we are both about to be scalped.”

He knew the exact minute when Aramis entered the courtyard. Tired of beating Athos in the two games of chess they had played, d’Artagnan had wheedled this session out of his mentor. Using his puppy dog eyes to their full advantage, Athos had no choice but to capitulate. He wasn’t really even exerting himself, just stretching his abused muscles out. Not wanting to go stale, d’Artagnan thought a light match would be beneficial for him. So he had expected to see Aramis breathing fire at d’Artagnan’s actions and he hadn’t been disappointed.

Ending the short practice, Athos stepped aside to let Aramis approach for he could see the worry etched between the marksman’s brows. The way his friend glared at him as Athos stepped aside, he knew that a few well placed words would be waiting for him at some point as well.

Expecting his back to smart from his exertions, d’Artagnan was pleasantly surprised to only feel a slight pull against his stitches. No pain whatsoever was involved. Which went to show that Aramis did excellent work. Though it helped tremendously that, d’Artagnan being younger than all of them, his body healed at a faster rate.

When Athos backed away, d’Artagnan knew he was in trouble when Aramis stepped into view. Scowling face and angry eyes directed at him, the older man’s body language alone told d’Artagnan he was in for a lecture. It was with no small amount of trepidation that he stood stock still waiting for Aramis to scold him. Beginning to feel like a petit child facing his parents for doing something forbidden, d’Artagnan tried not to compare his brother to papa.

About to take their young one to task, Aramis caught a fleeting look of fear come and go from d’Artagnan’s expressive eyes. The lad evidently knew this wasn’t the done thing to do when the Gascon had barely begun to heal. Still Aramis hesitated berating the youth. In no way did he want to become responsible for making the lad remember the harsh treatment meted out by Alexandre d’Artagnan.

“Would it help you…” d’Artagnan shyly dipped his head, “and myself if I said I was sorry?”

“You… you…” the words wouldn’t come. So Aramis did what came naturally to him. Enveloping his young friend in strong arms, Aramis rested his chin on d’Artagnan’s slim shoulder. Feeling the lad’s arms wrap around him, returning the warm hug, Aramis squeezed his eyes shut tight. When finally he released the youth he backed away slightly, never relinquishing his hold, studying d’Artagnan’s not so contrite features. Noting the cheeky grin, with no signs of pain or fatigue marring d’Artagnan’s naturally olive-toned skin, Aramis exchanged a wry look with Porthos. “Stubborn doesn’t even come close to describing you, pup.”

“But you love me anyway.” Grinning, d’Artagnan ducked away from the playful swat Aramis aimed at his backside.

“By the way,” waving the kid over toward the bench where Porthos sat, he patted the empty spot beside him, “how’d the chess game play out?”

Opening his mouth to respond, d’Artagnan caught the fine arch of one brow raised quite high upon his mentor's face. It was enough to make d’Artagnan’s mouth snap shut, which he instantly did. Instead, he offered Porthos a casual shrug of one shoulder.

Oh he hadn’t been born yesterday and Porthos wasn’t blind either. He saw the exchange between the whelp and Athos. Slapping both knees loudly, his laughter erupted in the courtyard. “Just like I thought.” Throwing his older brother a quick wink, Porthos shook his head at the blank expression on Athos’ face. It was a look he was normally accustomed to seeing, whenever Athos aimed it at an enemy. So now Porthos couldn’t determine exactly what was going on in the other man’s head. “I’ve told ya before the kid’s good at the game.”

“But,’ interrupting them, a highly amused look was pasted on Aramis’ charmingly handsome features, “Athos is anything if not consistent.” Hopping up to sit on the bench top, Aramis gazed down into Porthos’ still laughing eyes. “You and I should have placed bets on the outcome of the match, mon ami.” Slapping his brother on the back, Aramis wore a smug expression.

“Nah,” Porthos chuckled. “Wouldn’t a been much fun in that since I already knew the outcome.” Now Athos’ face began to slowly change. It’s what Porthos’ jab meant to do. “D’Artagnan’s never lost yet and I like a challenge.”

“You might get that _challenge_ sooner than expected.” His tone utterly serious, Athos glowered at the bigger man.

“Athos.” Gently chiding his friend with a nudge to the shoulder, d’Artagnan waited for the older man to let up.

Glancing at his protégé, Athos’ expression changed once again to one of fondness. Clasping their youngest’ left arm, in brotherhood, he glanced over at Aramis and Porthos. "Some things are better left unsaid." With lips threatening to curl upward he added, "But I’m probably going to get drunk and say them anyway.”

Clapping his hands together, Aramis nearly fell off the top of the bench. “Oh ho! Our great leader has spoken!” Tipping his head to the side, his eyes twinkled merrily. “We are merely peons compared to your illustrious background, mon frere, which makes me curious as to what you would have to tell us.” Jumping off the bench Aramis stood beside Porthos, the latter having already gained his feet. “Fire away.” Whispering in his friend’s ear he said, “I think I’ve worked Athos up enough. This should be good.”

Stepping in front of his mentor, d’Artagnan played the peacekeeper. “We can all wait to listen to Athos’ words later at The Wren.” What he didn’t want was for the captain coming down on his friends if a fight broke out amongst them. Which was more than likely to happen if Porthos and Aramis kept irritating Athos in this manner. Knowing that it was usually all in good fun did nothing to keep d’Artagnan from worrying. “For now let us all go to the canteen since tis nearly time for lunch.”

“Our kid’s missed ‘is callin’.” Slyly glancing at Athos and Aramis, it was the marksman that picked up on the loose thread that Porthos left dangling in the air.

“Ah, oui.” Eyes alight with mirth Aramis waved a finger airily. “I hear King Louis could use a new negotiator during his council meetings.” Humming softly, Aramis noted d’Artagnan’s face scrunch up. “His last one was quite something or so I was told.”

“Yeah.” Nodding his head, Porthos stared at the whelp. “I nearly got knocked over by Monsieur Eberly while the councilman was doin' 'is best ta run out of the palace like 'is pants were on fire,” he snorted.

Gentle ribbing aside, all four men amicably made their way over to Serge’s domain for, what they hoped would be, a hearty lunch.

++++

_Later at the Canteen_

“What are _they_ doin’ ‘ere?” Growling his displeasure at the sight of several Red Guards, that had the stupidity to cross Serge’s threshold, Porthos started to push up out of his chair. A more level head prevented him from gaining his feet to go over there and throw them out on their collective asses. Glancing down at the firm hold Athos had on his right arm Porthos' eyes then slid toward the guards. When his brother squeezed harder on Porthos’ arm, he plopped back down onto his chair. The color red wasn't a favorite of his to begin with and those capes they wore tempted Porthos like it would have a bull.

Leaning back in his chair, Athos stared hard at the three older guards. Their fourth member with them appeared to be ill at ease. More than likely the younger man was new to Richelieu’s men but at least he showed a sign of some intelligence by hanging back. “Lost are we, gentlemen?”

Bouchelu looked down his crooked nose at Treville’s lieutenant, not impressed with the Musketeer in the slightest. “We thought to see how the other half lived,” he snidely remarked.

Recognizing Bouchelu from a previous run in, Athos knew the Red Guard was here to cause trouble. All you had to do was sneeze in any Red Guards direction and they would pick fights with the Musketeers. “We _live_ rather well I would say,” was his smart retort.

Coming over to serve the inseparables, Serge was stunned to see four Red Guards standing inside his place. "You better not start any trouble." Placing the food he carried down on the table, Serge wiped his hands down the sides of his apron. "I always knew Richelieu's crop of guards didn't have much for brains," Serge spat angrily. "But this was damn stupid to come into a place filled with Musketeers."

"Don't concern yourself, old man," Geroux snarled. "We'll do as we please." His rough laughter was so loud it carried over and disturbed the other tables filled with Musketeers. He could have cared less, knowing their presence alone was enough to shake up Treville's soldiers.

Slowly getting to his feet, Aramis looked Geroux and Bouchelu up and down, sizing them up. "Common sense is not a gift, mes freres," he nodded to his friends," tis a punishment." Pointing to the four guards in front of him, Aramis smirked. "Because you have to deal with everyone who doesn't have it."

It was then that d'Artagnan stood up to stand beside the marksman's side. It hadn't escaped his notice that the younger of the four Red Guards appeared extremely uncomfortable. Directing his words to him he said, "Why don't you go back to the Palais-Cardinal before things get really nasty here."

"Mark my words, Fabian, set one foot out that door," Bouchelu warned, grabbing the young guard by Fabian's cape, "and you'll live to regret it."

"I believe tis you who are going to _regret_ many things." Getting in-between Porthos, who was now looming threateningly over the Red Guards, and Aramis, Athos unsheathed his sword.

Fabian didn't know what to do. He had only been with the Red Guards a few months but in that short amount of time he hadn't been happy with what he had seen nor been asked to do. Stiffening his spine, Fabian reached over to his left shoulder and ripped off his red cape. Throwing it onto the floor he went to stand with the Musketeers.

"Fine!" Bouchelu spat. "You can die with the Musketeer scum!"

As swords began to clash, d'Artagnan was glad of his earlier sparring with Athos. His muscles were limbered up and not stiff. If the guards wanted a fight he and his friends would give them one to remember. Whirling around to ward off a sneaky blow from Geroux, d'Artagnan's blade slashed across the Red Guard's mid-section cutting a bloody path. His body humming with energy, d'Artagnan continued fighting alongside his brothers. While steel clashed against steel he thought of the time he had turned sixteen and discovered, that as the pupil, he was beginning to surpass his teacher.

++++

_FLASHBACK_

_Monsieur Lawrie's residence_

It was mid afternoon and d'Artagnan had been in-between chores. Figuring he could fit in some sparring time with Monsieur Lawrie, he had raced all the way over to the former soldier's house. Right now they were out back practicing. There were a few benches around the area and d'Artagnan used them to full advantage. Jumping on top of one he crossed swords with Monsieur. His feet lightly danced across the length of it, while his blade scored hit after hit on his teacher. It was at this point that d'Artagnan lept into the air, performing a perfect flip over Monsieur's head, to land neatly behind the older man. He truly began to feel alive, in that moment. Noting Monsieur's astonished expression it told d'Artagnan more than words could ever say.

"What the deuce was that?" Throwing his sword onto the ground, Verrill could only stare at the boy in shock.

"A new technique." Grinning unabashedly, d'Artagnan retrieved the other man's sword from the dirt. "Tis not a good way to treat your blade," he tisked.

"Give me that." Snatching his sword from the youngster's hand, Verrill muttered unintelligible words while cleaning his sword of the dirt it had collected. "In my day men didn't fight in that manner."

"Things change," d'Artagnan laughed. "Before maman passed away, my friends and I were always running off at every opportunity to climb trees and jumping off of them. We found many ways to land without breaking our necks."

"Tis a wonder none of your folks caught you at it and tanned your young hides," Verrill grumbled. Sighing, he rubbed the back of his neck. "Makes me wish for younger bones. I'm a might jealous."

"Do not be so." Dipping his head toward Monsieur, d'Artagnan placed his hand on his friend's shoulder. Gripping it hard, he leaned in close. "If not for you I would not have the skill I now possess to make my dreams materialize."

"I believe I'll write to Jean-Armand again and let him know what he'll be in for when you eventually arrive in Paris." Chuckling at the grimace that crossed d'Artagnan's young face, Verrill slung an arm across the boy's shoulder leading the lad back inside the house where they could clean up.

"At least I won't be an unknown quantity to him since he's known me from an enfant."

"You mean as an _enfant terrible_." Teasing the youth came naturally to Verrill. In more ways than Alexandre, he felt like the lad's papa. "You better wash up before I send you on your way."

"Papa won't notice the difference whether I'm wearing clean clothes or not," d'Artagnan remarked, though there wasn't any disappointment in his voice. He was used to papa ignoring his existence, for the most part. It didn't hurt anymore or so he kept telling himself.

"I'll notice, child." Gently pushing d'Artagnan inside Verrill closed the door behind them, along with the memories of Alexandre's neglect.

++++

_Notes:_

_Quote: “Some things are better left unsaid… but I’m probably going to get drunk and say them anyway.”_ – from Aunty Acid

 _Quote: "Common sense is not a gift, it's a punishment. Because you have to deal with everyone who doesn't have it."_ \- from Aunty Acid


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, Hsg, there’s a bit of Athos for you in the beginning here for the fighting part you had asked for.
> 
> See notes at bottom.
> 
> ++++

_Present Day_

_Same place and time that we left all our boys… in a fight as usual – Garrison canteen_

From the safety of his kitchen Serge used the Red Guards as target practice, throwing plate after plate at them. Later he’d put the bill to the captain, whether Treville liked it or not. Serge hadn’t asked for the cardinal’s men to come into his establishment in the first place. Deuce stupid of them! About to throw another projectile, his hand was stayed by one of the kitchen helpers. “Let go of my arm, Kagan.” Trying to shake it free, Serge didn’t understand why the lad held firm.

“Serge, that plate's full of food.” Eyeing all the broken dishes already covering the floor, Kagan winced. “Got enough to clean up as it is without adding that to it.”

“Aye, lad, I agree.” Searching for another empty plate Serge saw Kagan roll his eyes. “Ain’t letting the Musketeers have all the fun,” he grumbled.

Before the fight had broken out the rest of the soldiers, who had already been eating their lunch, pushed back their chairs and stood up wanting to lend extra muscle to the fight. But Athos had shouted at them to stay their hand. The foursome wanted to handle the guards themselves.

In the meantime Athos had pushed the younger Red Guard, who had torn his cape off in disgust, toward his other brothers-in-arms. Athos didn’t want the former guard involved in this fight. This was personal. More than personal for Athos, as it was his fist that had broken Bouchelu’s nose in a previous altercation.

It figured that Bouchelu wanted revenge. Later, when the dust settled, Athos would explain to Treville what Fabien had done and that the young man wanted to stand with the Musketeers. It was then that his thoughts were dragged away by an anxious shout in Athos’ direction. The warning from d’Artagnan had most likely saved his life. A cutting slash toward his throat was missed by mere inches, thanks to the young Gascon. Whirling around the enemy, it was Bouchelu instead who found a blade at his own throat. “ _YIELD!_ ” Athos growled. “ _YIELD NOW OR DIE!_ ”

“Yield,” Bouchelu snorted. “To you… Musketeer scum!” finding the opening he had been looking for, Bouchelu managed to divert Athos’ blade away from slicing his neck open. Instead, having taken the Musketeer by surprise, struck the hilt of his sword against Athos’ skull.

With his head ringing from the stunning blow Athos staggered backward, tripping over an overturned chair to land hard on the floor.

Noting his mentor’s vulnerable position, d’Artagnan jumped on top one of the tables taking the Red Guard on in Athos’ place. While his sword sang against Bouchelu’s, d’Artagnan risked a glance to his left. Geroux was clearly out of commission now. The wound he had dealt the other guard clearly had slowed the soldier down. Porthos currently was standing over Geroux like an angry bear. Only thing missing from his large frame were claws.

Jumping over to another table d’Artagnan slashed his blade at Bouchelu’s exposed chest. He missed plunging his sword into the older guard but still managed to cut a bloody path from Bouchelu’s shoulder down to the other man’s wrist. Out of the corner of d’Artagnan’s eye he noted Aramis was deftly handling Cousineau. The marksman clearly had things well in hand, as his friend had the Red Guard backed up against a wall.

Concentrating on his own fight d’Artagnan lept into the air, avoiding a strike against his legs from Bouchelu’s rapier. Twisting his body around d’Artagnan landed directly behind the Red Guard, gaining the upper hand. Bouchelu’s look of astonishment was etched across his face, when the older soldier whirled around. But d’Artagnan’s maneuver allowed him to take full advantage of catching his opponent off guard, long enough for d’Artagnan to lash out with a mean strike of his own against Bouchelu’s unprotected face. Hearing the grunt of pain from the guard, and noting the bloody cut down the left side of Bouchelu’s face, filled d’Artagnan with satisfaction. That was for Athos!

"Leave something for me, brat!" With a drum still beating a tattoo in his head Athos was afraid the young Gascon would finish off Bouchelu. This was a fight that he alone was meant to finish.

Twisting his head around d'Artagnan's dark eyes latched onto irritated blue ones. Bowing to his mentor, he backed off. "He's all yours, Athos," he added with a cheeky grin. Now that he was free again to lend aid d'Artagnan looked around the room and spotted Aramis still with Cousineau. "I see a visit to the tailor in Cousineau's future." Chuckling he continued watching Aramis in action.

After Aramis had pinned his opponent to the wall he let his blade do the talking for him. Making short work of Cousineau's uniform, Aramis sword cut through the material like a knife through butter. It left the Red Guard's bony legs exposed to the open air. "Mmmmm," he hummed pleasantly. "Have to say that Lestrange had better legs than yours."

Embarrassed, Cousineau couldn't leave Serge's fast enough. He didn't even stop to check on the fate of his fellow guards, as he beat a hasty departure through the exit.

With a mighty kick to Geroux' ass, Porthos watched the Red Guard fly past the open door to land in a heap on the hard ground. "Who's Lestrange, Mis?"

"Another Red Guard, mon frere." Grinning at the memory, Aramis explained. "I had encountered him when I was visiting Madame Angels last week. I somehow got mixed up which room Veronique was in." A smile danced about Aramis' lips in fond recall of the many passionate times they've shared together. "When I opened the door," he waved a hand in the air, "there stood Lestrange in all his glory."

Slapping Aramis on the back, Porthos' shoulders shook with laughter. "That 'ad ta a been a sight."

"For sore eyes, oui." His own laughter joined his friend's. When a plate flew past his head, barely missing it to hit the wall directly behind Aramis, his mirth died a quick death. "Cease and desist, mon ami!" Pointing to where Athos still fought his opponent, Aramis caught Serge's attention. Looking down at all the broken dishes on the floor, he whistled through his teeth. "The captain is definitely not going to be pleased."

"Was for a good cause." Coming over to where both Musketeers stood, Serge struggled past overturned tables and chairs on his way. "He won't mind."

Rubbing his chin, Aramis glanced at the floor once more then back at Serge. "Perhaps."

"Ain't no _perhaps_ about it," Serge huffed. "I ain't got many dishes left so the captain's going to have to purchase more."

Joining them, d'Artagnan held one of the broken plates in his hand.

"What cha' gonna do with that, kid?"

"I could throw it at Bouchelu," d'Artagnan replied. "Then again I doubt Athos would approve as they are still fighting."

Grabbing the broken dish from the whelp's hand, Porthos threw it against the wall near Bouchelu's head. Turning to the pup, his grin spread wide. "Tis called distraction, lad."

Leaning against Aramis' shoulder, d'Artagnan's bright eyes were happy. "The more I'm with any of you the strangest things I pick up."

"Remember, lad," sharing a fond look at their petit frere with Porthos, Aramis remarked, "any trick in the book should be used when lives are at stake... or if you're bored."

While d'Artagnan pondered the merits of using broken plates in their arsenal of weaponry, his mentor was nearly finished with Bouchelu.

"I see my protégé left you with a parting gift, Bouchelu." His sword crashed harshly against the Red Guard's blade. Noting the other man was favoring his right arm, Athos was pleased. His last strike apparently found its mark. Blood ran freely down his opponent's nose, which meant that Athos had once more broken it when he had lashed out with his fist. "The cut d'Artagnan gave you will scar nicely to match your poor nose."

Greatly satisfied Athos began feeling charitable toward Bouchelu, deciding not to kill the guard. Plus it would save Treville from all that nasty paperwork and facing an angry cardinal. "If I were you I'd surrender now before you continue embarrassing yourself." When Bouchelu growled his protest, Athos reached for his main gauche. Sticking the weapon high up in his opponent's upper left thigh, he smirked when Bouchelu howled in agony. "I'll let Richelieu have the privilege of booting you out of the Red Guards when he finds out how easily you were defeated."

Tipping his chapeau back, Aramis chuckled. "I say that was invigorating to watch." Throwing a look at d'Artagnan, his eyes swept the Gascon from top to bottom. "How do you feel," he held up a finger, "and do not repeat your usual mantra of _I'm fine_. Tis becoming old."

Blood had pumped wildly through d'Artagnan's veins during the fighting. Now that it was over his adrenaline rush began to die down, leaving his body to cry out in protest at overtaxed muscles.

"D'Artagnan," Athos drawled, while standing over the writhing form of his victim, "tell Aramis the truth."

Pulling a face, d'Artagnan averted his eyes from the close inspection of his brothers.

"Whelp's just dyin' ta tell us 'e's _fine_ ," Porthos chortled. "Ya can just tell."

"Truly," a deep scowl formed on d'Artagnan's face. "Why do none of you ever believe me when I say that?"

"Why?" Both brows rose nearly to Athos' hairline. "You really need to ask?" was his sarcastic response.

"I'm sore," d'Artagnan reluctantly admitted.

"Just like pulling teeth," Aramis clucked.

Deciding to deflect attention away from himself, d'Artagnan stabbed a finger in the air toward his mentor. "If anyone should be concerned," his eyes slid toward Aramis, "Athos was clocked a good one on the back of his head from the hilt of Bouchelu's rapier."

"I didn't see that," Aramis muttered. Immediately he strode over to Athos and began fussing over him.

A thoroughly disgusted expression crossed Athos' features. Casting a look at the pup that spoke of retribution to come, Athos put up with the medic checking his skull to make sure it hadn't cracked wide open.

"Glad it'll be ya muckin' out the stables next time, kid." Laughing at d'Artagnan's sour look, Porthos reached out to ruffle the whelp's hair. "Let's raid Serge's kitchen. We never did finish lunch."

Patting Porthos' stomach, d'Artagnan simply shook his head. "Is there ever a day goes by when you don't think of food?"

"Weren't never enough of it growin' up in the Court." Porthos gave a careless shrug. "So the answer to your question is non."

"I doubt Serge would appreciate us sniffing around his kitchen though." Speaking of the old cook, d'Artagnan noted Serge was sweeping the broken dishes up. "Porthos, come. We should help him."

"I'd rather eat." Grumbling over his petit frere's suggestion, Porthos began setting up the rest of the overturned tables and chairs that were scattered about. "There better be food when I'm done."

Other Musketeers began pitching in to help as well. When the canteen was clean enough to suit Serge, they began filing out the door.

Danvers and Legard stopped beside their lieutenant's side. "Shame you lot didn't want our help." His eyes sparkling, Legard winked at Athos.

"I wouldn't have minded adding my sword to yours either," Danvers grinned, with a wink of his own at the older man.

"I promise next time you both shall have your chance, gentlemen." A smile teased the corners of Athos' lips.

Dipping their heads at Athos both men waved farewell to the others but before departing Legard threw over his shoulder, "We'll hold you to that."

"Athos, what do we do with 'im?" Pointing to Fabien, who was having an animated conversation with the kid, Porthos scratched the back of his head.

"Only one alternative, mon ami." Gathering up his weapons, Athos walked over to the two young men. "Fabien, is it?"

"Oui, sir," Fabien quietly answered. His eyes sought that of the young Musketeer. He didn't know what his fate would be now that he had given up his position with the Red Guards. What Fabien did realize was unless he left Paris, he had just painted a huge target on his back. One which his former comrades would be aiming for.

"Come with me." Smartly turning on his heel Athos headed for the door, without bothering to see if the young man followed.

Still standing frozen to the same spot, Fabien couldn't get his feet to move.

"You really should obey Athos when he gives an order," d'Artagnan whispered to Fabien. "Athos doesn't like to repeat himself nor to be kept waiting."

Suddenly Fabien's feet became unglued and developed wings as he rushed past Porthos and Aramis.

"What ya wanna bet before the day's out Fabien's wearin' blue?" Snatching a sliced baguette from a plate Serge had on the counter, Porthos bit into it.

Contemplating what Porthos had just said, Aramis nodded his head. "It took a lot of courage for the lad to do what he did."

"I think Fabien would be a good fit for the Musketeers." Having said his piece d'Artagnan followed Porthos' example and retrieved an apple from a basket, biting into it with relish.

Thumping three glasses of wine on the counter, Serge stood back and stared at the trio. The Musketeers eyed the full glasses warily, sending him a hesitant look. “Drink up,” he grumbled. “Ya saved the day as usual.”

Porthos didn’t need further prodding. He was finished with his wine, while Aramis and the whelp were still working on theirs. “Athos will be upset 'e missed this.”

“I’ll have something special for Athos next time he's here.” Busying himself in the kitchen, Serge went about his business.

“I could have done with another,” complained Porthos, receiving eyerolls from both his friends at his remark. “Look ‘ere,” he pointed a finger at d’Artagnan, “I drink wine for your protection.”

Spitting out a mouthful of wine, Aramis could only stare at Porthos in disbelief. “How is it that your drinking wine protects us, mon ami?” Nudging d’Artagnan in the ribs, Aramis thought this was going to be good.

“As I sees it,” Porthos grinned, “the more I drink when we're out on the town, I won’t be causing a ruckus when the wine kegs run dry at The Wren. Hence you, mes freres won’t get caught up in all the trouble I’ll cause if I'm sober.”

Turning confused brown orbs on Aramis, d’Artagnan went to open his mouth to ask a question but a finger on his lips from the marksman stopped him.

“Don’t even bother trying to figure out how Porthos’ mind works, lad.” Finishing his own wine, Aramis placed the empty glass back on the counter. “I’ve stopped doing such a thing long ago.”

Finished with his own drink, d'Artagnan silently chuckled at the fierce look Porthos sent Aramis. He loved these men and would certainly die for them if needs must and that definitely included his mentor. His past rose to the surface once more, thinking back to what led up to his fortunes in Paris, along with warm memories of Monsieur Lawrie.

++++

_FLASHBACK_

"I shall miss you, d'Artagnan." Sniffing a few times, Verrill pretended it was just the pollen in the air making him do so.

"As I shall miss you, Monsieur." Eyes misting over, d'Artagnan swallowed hard against the lump building in his throat. He was all of eighteen now, well on the way to making his fortune with the Musketeers. Captain Treville knew he would be coming to him shortly. Not expecting to get special treatment, nor did d'Artagnan want any, he still was eager to see his papa's older friend again. It had been years since he had last seen the man, but the letters the captain had been writing to him were always quite entertaining. Especially those filled with news of the captain's favorites... _the inseparables_. Though the officer would never admit those feelings to the three soldiers. "I only pray that I do not make a poor showing and fail to become a Musketeer after all the hard training you've done with me."

"You may be disappointed if you fail but you are doomed if you don't try." As his wise words washed over the young Gascon, Verrill noted a myriad of emotions cross the youngster's face. Placing a work-roughened hand on the lad's right shoulder, Verrill gave it a firm squeeze. "Remember from now on any successful life must include serving others."

"And I'm prepared to do that and more," d'Artagnan proudly proclaimed. "There was a saying my maman used to always reference."

Knowing how much the boy missed her still Verrill always felt that she would be an angel sitting upon d'Artagnan's shoulder throughout the lad's life journey, including the youngster's career. A _career_ he knew, deep down in his aging bones, that the lad would fulfill and more. "Francoise was fond of saying many things," he chuckled.

"An aim in life is the only fortune worth finding," he breathed softly, thinking of her. D'Artagnan could almost feel her feather-like kisses upon his cheek. Taking a deep breath, he held back his tears. It wouldn't do for him to start balling right before he was to leave for Paris.

"That was definitely Francoise." Remembering her loss, as if it were only yesterday, Verrill sadly looked at her son. Perhaps for the last time. "You'll be taking her with you, d'Artagnan." His hand slid down from the younger man's shoulder to rest upon the boy's heart. "Francoise will always live within your heart."

Reaching out d'Artagnan pulled his teacher in for a warm hug. Resting his head in the crook of Monsieur's neck, he fought back those tears that kept threatening to spill over. Straightening up, ducking his head shyly, d'Artagnan cleared his throat. "You shall keep up a correspondence with me once I send word of where I'll be living?"

Chuckling, Verrill gazed at d'Artagnan like a proud père. "Was that a question or an order, _Monsieur Soon To Be Musketeer_?"

"Guess I'm practicing," d'Artagnan announced cheekily, throwing a wink at the older man while mounting Zad.

Resting a hand on the lad's thigh, Verrill gazed upward into the lad's features. "Have you and Alexandre said your goodbyes yet?"

"I've done so with Monsieur and Madame Palomer." Lips tightening into a firm line, d'Artagnan shook the hair from out of his eyes. "As for papa," he grimaced, "what passed for farewell had already been said, if somewhat awkwardly."

"Then get yourself to Paris, d'Artagnan," Verrill grinned. "They haven't a clue what they're in for." Making the youngster laugh was his intention, setting the boy on his path with a lightness of heart. He would continue to keep d'Artagnan in his prayers. Already knowing there was at least one heavenly angel above keeping an eye out for the boy, Verrill figured it could only help d'Artagnan... and perhaps Jean-Armand's regiment as well.

++++

_Notes:_

_Quote: “I drink wine for your protection.”_ By Aunty Acid (as if you didn’t know)

 _Quote: "You may be disappointed if you fail but you are doomed if you don't try"_ by Beverly Sills (May 25, 1929 – July 2, 2007). She was an American operatic soprano whose peak career was between the 1950s and 1970s.

 _Quote: "Remember from now on any successful life must include serving others."_ By George H.W. Bush (born June 12, 1924). He is an American politician who served as the 41st President of the United States from 1989 to 1993.

 _Quote: "An aim in life is the only fortune worth finding."_ By Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis (July 28, 1929 – May 19, 1994). She was the wife of the 35th President of the United States, John F. Kennedy, and First Lady of the United States from 1961 until his assassination in 1963.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wish everyone that celebrates the holiday a very Merry Christmas and a bright and healthy New Year!
> 
> I also wanted to share with you a picture of a very cool Secret Santa gift I got at our gift exchange at work. Kari, my co-worker, knows I write in the Musketeer genre and watched the show, etc. She found a collectible vintage Toby mug from Japan and it's a Musketeer and she got it for me. But she thinks it was a reproduction. It had to be because we had a $10 limit on our gifts. LOL! Currently it sits on my desk holding my pens. It's not your typical mug that you drink out of. It's smaller. It's an older Musketeer so I'm pretending it's a middle aged d'Artagnan. LOL again! It will be at the bottom of this chapter so you all can see it.
> 
> See notes at bottom.
> 
> ++++

_A few weeks later_

_Early morning – Garrison courtyard_

Watching from his position on the bench, Porthos carefully eyed every move their youngest performed against Fabien. D’Artagnan had mended quite well and Athos trusted the lad enough to take over lessons for some of the other recruits. Fabien had shown good sense throwing his lot in with the king’s finest. Captain Treville had readily accepted the young man after hearing about the altercation at the canteen. The captain had felt that since Fabien had proven capable enough to have been a Red Guard that wearing blue immediately was the obvious decision, not needing to put the newest member through regular training. Though Fabien would have to learn what it truly meant to be a Musketeer and most of the men in the Garrison had agreed they’d go out of their way to show Fabien the ropes.

When d’Artagnan saluted Fabien with his rapier, Porthos new the sparring session was over. As they approached him he grinned. “It was a good workout for ya both.” Patting the empty spaces on the bench, indicating for them to join him, Porthos waited until they were seated. It was then that he passed a bucket of fresh, cool water over to d’Artagnan first.

Dipping a ladle into it d’Artagnan slaked his thirst as did Fabien. “Merci,” he smacked his lips together. “Tis truly hot out today.” Pouring some water over his head d’Artagnan then shook his hair out, spraying Porthos and Fabien all over with droplets.

“’Ey!” Instantly gaining his feed, Porthos glared down at the young Gascon. “If’n I wanted a bath I’da done it at my place.”

“Apologies, mon ami.” Turning to face Fabien, d’Artagnan winked at him. Judging by their newest member’s reaction, he could tell that the water hadn’t bothered Fabien over much. Matter of fact Fabien appeared considerably amused. Ah, perhaps someone else he could enlist into helping him pull off pranks d’Artagnan loved to surprise his brothers with.

“I wonder what ‘appened to those three blockheads?” Two pairs of brows rose in tandem at Porthos’ question.

“Do you mean Bouchelu, Cousineau and Geroux?” d’Artagnan asked. Receiving a positive grunt from the large man he laughed, clapping his hands. “You mean you didn’t know?”

“Whelp,” sharply snapping out his favorite name for the kid, Porthos loomed over the lad, “if’n I ‘ad would I be askin’ ya in the first place?”

Containing himself from further teasing his friend d’Artagnan’s brown eyes slid toward Fabien, letting the other man respond.

“Cardinal Richelieu kicked them all out of the Red Guards,” Fabien offered the giant.

When Athos and Aramis joined them, Porthos poked both men hard in their shoulders. “Why didn’t either of ya see fit ta tell me about those lunkheads we fought over at Serge’s?”

“We embarrassed them right out of the Richelieu’s core.” Seating himself on the spot Porthos had just vacated, Aramis tilted his head back to look up at his brother. “I assumed you had heard.”

Glowering at Aramis, Porthos then stabbed Athos with a filthy look. “Did ya think I knew as well?”

Uncomfortable at being questioned like that and realizing he would be damned for all eternity in Porthos’ eyes anyway Athos’ lips tightened into a thin line, not responding to the question.

Growling deep in his throat, Porthos grabbed his rapier from where it laid on top of the bench, near d’Artagnan. “Think I’ll go spar with Danvers.”

Porthos left, leaving d’Artagnan to glance nervously at his mentor. “I believe he’s somewhat upset with us.”

“Tis better to stay out of his way when Porthos gets like that.” Wincing when Danvers landed in a heap on the hardened Earth, Aramis covered his eyes. It would be too hard for him to watch a fellow brother-in-arms be taken down from Porthos’ fury with them.

“Not that tis fair for Porthos to take out his anger on an innocent victim,” closing his own eyes when another harsh strike had Danvers on his knees, “still tis better him than us.”

Nudging Fabien in the side, d’Artagnan whispered low. “Rules to live by.”

“I have a lot to learn,” Fabien ruefully replied. The Musketeers were so far above the cardinal’s Red Guards that Fabien couldn’t get over the fact that they had excepted him so easily into the regiment. While dealing with his meandering thoughts, Fabien suddenly remembered an appointment that he didn't want to be late for. “Pardon but I'm supposed to be meeting with Captain Treville shortly. It wouldn’t look good for me to be tardy.”

“Good news I hope.” Smiling at Fabien, Aramis tipped his chapeau at him.

“Your captain’s going to assign me to a unit.” Worry was written on Fabien’s features.

“You’ll do all right, lad.” Gripping Fabien’s left shoulder Athos gave it a gentle pat.

“I’ll catch up with you later, Fabien and then you can tell me who Captain Treville has you serving with.” Genuinely enjoying his company, d’Artagnan hoped Fabien could settle into a Musketeer’s routine without too much trouble. It would be interesting too in seeing Fabien's reaction whenever he eventually met up with Red Guards he used to work with.

As Fabien left for his appointment, Athos turned a curious eye on his protégé. "You two appear to get along rather well."

"Fabien's only a few years older than myself," d'Artagnan offered with a light shrug.

"Meaning that he's a breath of fresh air to your young eyes," Aramis teased. "Fabien's presence also means that you don't always have to surround yourself with the likes of us."

"Non!" D'Artagnan exclaimed sharply. "Tis not like that!"

"Aramis." Throwing a stern glance the marksman's way, with a not so subtle glare to behave, Athos placed a calming hand on the back of the lad's neck. "We understand, d'Artagnan. No explanations are needed between friends. Tis fine."

"On another note however," beginning to clean his weapons Aramis happily hummed, "I heard King Louis will be hosting Spanish dignitaries at the Louvre in a few day’s time."

Grimacing, Athos' grave face shared a look of concern with their youngest. "Any dealings with Spain of late seem to harvest nothing but problems for France."

"Do you think we'll be assigned guard duty at the palace to protect His Majesty while the Spanish visit?" He too wasn't looking forward to it. Last time the king met with the Spanish Ambassador it did not end well. D’Artagnan had been there when King Louis had shouted at Senor Aritza and then marched out through the double doors, leaving Aritza opened mouthed in astonishment. Not being able to make out what had caused their king’s temper to erupt, because of where d’Artagnan had been stationed, he assumed whatever the ambassador had said wasn’t to His Majesty’s liking.

Poking his nose in-between his two friends, Aramis slyly smiled. “Oh to be sure Captain Treville would only assign his finest to the duty.”

Returning the smile, d'Artagnan proudly offered, “Which would be us.” When Aramis heartily clapped him on the shoulder, d’Artagnan beamed at him.

“Oh don’t look like that Athos.” Noting that his brother appeared rather grim about it all, Aramis winked at the young Gascon. “What could go wrong?” This time Athos’ grave countenance fairly screamed out loud that Aramis’ unfortunate choice of words had just doomed them all. Putting it simply down to the fact that their pup had recently found his footing amongst them again, overcoming d’Artagnan’s injuries, Aramis could somewhat understand Athos’ trepidation over the Spanish coming to pay them yet another visit.

“How should I look, Aramis,” Athos drolly replied. “I do not feel exactly like performing a Rigaudon at the news.” Fiercely glowering at Aramis, as the other man guffawed loudly, Athos wanted to do the man bodily harm.

“You do know that if you were to do the _Rigaudon_ you’d need a partner?” Still overcome with the picture that came to Aramis’ mind of his older friend doing so, he nearly toppled over into d’Artagnan’s side from laughing so much.

“Let us change the subject,” one brow arched high in warning, “shall we?” Noting the fact that the lad appeared to be the only thing holding Aramis up, Athos went over to gently push the young Gascon aside. “How does mucking out the stables for an entire week sound to you, Aramis?”

Nothing made Aramis move faster than when he had been threatened with doing something against his better nature. The amusement wiped off his face instantly to be replaced with one of concern. “Surely you would not do so because of a slight jest, mon ami?”

Smirking, Athos’ blue eyes slid toward his amused protégé. “Wouldn’t I?” Leaving the warning there, he turned to gaze at Porthos. "Perhaps tis time I intervene on Danver's behalf."

"I think that would be best." D'Artagnan's head bobbed up and down in agreement. While Athos was speaking with Porthos, Danvers took the opportunity to join d'Artagnan and Aramis. The older man looked about done in. "Here, have some water." Shoving the bucket into Danver's hand, d'Artagnan was surprised when the other Musketeer simply stared down into it.

"Lad, I'm so worn out I don't think I could even lift the ladle." Pushing the bucket back in the younger man's hands Danvers bent his head. "Just pour it over me."

"Ummmm, you're sure." Hesitating, d'Artagnan waited to see if Danvers had changed his mind.

"Very. Go on, d’Artagnan." Keeping his head bent down, Danvers waited for the blissfully cool water to drench his head. When it did, Danvers indeed felt much better. "Now if Porthos wants another go, I'm sure I won't pass out on him."

"I'm sorry." His deep voice rumbling, Porthos stood in front of Danvers watching the droplets of water dripping from the man's head. "My temper got the better of me."

"I surmised you were already upset when you asked to spar with me," Danvers dryly retorted, followed by a light chuckle. "Did you want to continue?"

"Nah, I think I've worked off the rest of my anger. Just sorry it was on ya." Gripping Danver's forearm, Porthos smiled. "Gotta say ya kept up with me despite what I threw at ya."

Standing up, Danvers grinned. "A Musketeer is always prepared to face adversity," he winked at d'Artagnan. "Even if tis directed at one from another comrade."

"Best take yourself off before Treville wonders why your head is sopping wet." After Danvers left them Athos addressed his friends. "I'm going to see the captain to find out if we are indeed going to be at the palace during the ambassador's visit."

"Huh?" Staring at Athos' back, as his older brother left, Porthos wondered what he had missed. "Somethin' goin' on I should know about?"

Patting Porthos' back, d'Artagnan dramatically announced, " _The Spanish are coming_."

"Oy! Is that all." Bien, Porthos thought, let them come. He'll be ready for them when they do.

++++

Having talked briefly with Treville, Athos went back to the courtyard where his friends still were. "Ambassador Aritza will be arriving on the morrow, not in a couple of days," he explained. "Unfortunately there will only be a few Musketeers in attendance as apparently the ambassador has an aversion to the color _blue_."

"Oh," Aramis exchanged wry looks with his brothers, "the man would prefer the color _red_ I assume?"

"In a nutshell," Athos replied tightly. "Cardinal Richelieu's Red Guards will have the dubious honor of keeping Ambassador Aritza safe as we will surround His Majesty."

" _We_ ," motioning with his finger Porthos pointed to each one of them in turn, "as in just the _four_ of us?"

"Someone needs their heads examined," Aramis muttered. Then again he had always thought that the king and his council made unwise decisions. Perhaps this was out of His Majesty’s hands anyway. Knowing how insistent the Spanish Ambassador could be at times, there may have been no way for their young monarch to get out of the meeting or the demands put upon him by Aritza.

"Now I understand what set King Louis off that last time the ambassador was here." Things were certainly going to be interesting. Pleased that he was healthy again, d'Artagnan knew he'd be up for the challenge if anything were to happen during Aritza's time in Paris. Listening to his friend's hums of agreement, d'Artagnan observed Aramis finish cleaning his weapons.

"Much as I love being with all of you I have a trip into the city to take care of." Aramis had orders from the captain to purchase much needed supplies the Garrison was running short on. With a dip of his head, he departed from his friends. He was barely across the courtyard when it happened. Two horses had just escaped from the stable boys and were making their way toward Aramis. With his back turned away he didn't see the horses galloping in his direction, until d'Artagnan's warning shout grabbed his attention.

" _ARAMIS LOOK OUT!_ "

Whirling around Aramis noted the danger he was in. Without thought he dove to the right ultimately landing in a pile of horse manure that hadn't been cleaned up as yet. Laying on the ground, he watched the stable hands, along with d'Artagnan, finally capture the runaway horses. It was sadly too late for Aramis' leathers though. The smell alone was enough to scare everyone away from his person. Glaring daggers at the two boys in charge of the stable, Aramis swore. " _Merde!_ "

"Yeah," Porthos laughed. "Ya sure are covered in shit, Mis."

"I'm going to be very busy in the afterlife, mon frere," Aramis growled. "The list of people I'm going to haunt grows every day."

"Perhaps you would like to go change your leathers so as not to offend the good citizens of our fair city," Athos suggested, his lips twitching slightly. "Remember, the captain wanted those supplies procured as soon as possible."

Still sitting on the ground, Aramis rolled his eyes. "Lad, how about helping me up."

Having finally accomplished calming down the horses, d’Artagnan gave over their care to the two lads who were supposed to have been in charge of the mounts. Not knowing Aramis’ predicament, he wondered at the terrible odor assailing his nostrils the closer he drew toward the marksman. Wrinkling up his nose, he blurted out the first words that came to mind. “You stink.” Backing up a few paces to get downwind of his brother, d’Artagnan couldn’t help but feel as if Aramis had been working in the stables all day and then some. That’s when he paid attention to what now adorned Aramis’ clothes. Oh! So that’s what happened. Mmmmm. His brother had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and suffered for it.

Athos and Porthos couldn't help themselves and began laughing. Especially at the stunned look on Aramis' face from the pup's words.

Huffing, Aramis got up from the ground without any help. Straightening his doublet, which was half covered in manure as was the rest of him, he turned his back on his brothers and stomped away.

"I didn't mean to hurt his feelings but he truly smelled awful." Feeling badly that he hadn't lent his friend a hand, d'Artagnan was about to go after Aramis but a firm grip on his arm prevented that.

"Tis better we leave him be for now, d'Artagnan." Wondering if this day could get any worse, Athos thought perhaps it would be a good thing for now to keep the pup close to him. Just in case. "Come with me. You can give me your thoughts on how the four of us plus Treville can safely protect His Majesty during the ambassador's visit."

"I'll just stay right 'ere," Porthos said. "I gotta trainin' session scheduled with a couple of poor sots."

"Whomever has to face Porthos again," d'Artagnan's dark eyes danced, "I pity them." Trailing after his mentor, he was eager to give Athos his input. Hopefully d'Artagnan's ideas would sound sensible to the older man and could be put to good use.

++++

_Next Day – Royal Palace_

Positioned directly behind King Louis’ royal seat, Athos and Aramis stood at attention. In front of the dais also stood d’Artagnan and Porthos. The rest of the royal chamber was nearly full to capacity with Red Guards, much to their distaste and that of Captain Treville's. But to keep the peace with Ambassador Aritza they just had to suck it up and endure.

Once in awhile Treville’s eyes would stray toward the double doors leading to the royal hall. He had a surprise planned later for d’Artagnan, after Louis finished his talks with the ambassador. Not sure if the lad’s _surprise_ had arrived yet, Treville tried to retain focus on the job at hand. Praying that Aritza didn’t cause a commotion, it was then that the ambassador strode past the Red Guards stationed at the entrance.

The look on the Spaniard’s face didn’t bode well for Louis. Murmuring a silent prayer under his breath, Treville hoped whatever it was didn’t cause an uproar. Louis was not known for his patience and he wouldn’t put it past their monarch to throw another fit and leave the room like he had last time. If memory served, and it usually did, Aritza was duly upset at Louis’ abrupt departure.

++++

Slightly bored, d’Artagnan had locked eyes with a Red Guard standing near him. The other man too appeared just as bored. Dipping their heads at one another d’Artagnan knew they were both in accord in keeping their king safe, no matter the disagreements that may crop up between the two regiments.

Upon noting the ambassador’s arrival, d’Artagnan tuned everything else out. His duty was to protect King Louis at all costs. Duty was everything to him and he would not shirk it, even if it meant giving up his life for his country.

Barely had Ambassador finished his greetings to the young king when shots rang out. The echo of their report bounced off the walls and ceiling of the royal chamber.

At least eight Red Guards scrambled to cover His Majesty, along with Porthos and Athos. While it was left up to Captain Treville, Aramis and d’Artagnan, along with the other guards, to engage the malcontents that dared to enter the Louvre.

With two swords in his hands, d’Artagnan cut down the enemy as they approached. Whirling around like a tornado one blade caught an assailant in the stomach while the other one connected with a man’s neck, slicing it clear across.

His muskets and poignards were hitting their marks, as Aramis’ sharp eyes brought down the enemy. Captain Treville was holding his own against three assailants but it did not trouble Aramis in the slightest. Their captain, after all, was the second best swordsman next to Athos. It was when Aramis had just fired off his musket again that he noted d’Artagnan was in jeopardy and the lad didn’t know it for the enemy approached from behind the young Gascon. His musket spent, and out of poignards, there wasn’t time to reload his weapon to do d’Artagnan much good. Only option left for him was to shout - _D’ARTAGNAN BEHIND YOU!_ ”

++++

Guess I’m evil today leaving you with a bit of a cliffy. Sorry about that… er, perhaps not. LOL!

_Notes:_

Message about the picture of my Xmas present. For anyone new to reading this, if the picture is gone it's because Postimages.org is having financial issues and may shut down. Which means this picture will disappear. Just a heads up

_Rigaudon_ \- Is a French baroque dance. It originated as a sprightly 17th-century French folk dance for couples.

_Quote: "I'm going to be very busy in the afterlife. The list of people I'm going to haunt grows every day"_ \- Is from Aunty Acid.

 

++++

 

Here's the picture of the mug:

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A New Year and a new chapter. I hope all of you had a great time ringing in 2018. Me, I was home comfy in my pj's as none of my family/friends celebrate very much for it. We did all our celebrating during Christmas. Anyway considering we've been in the deep freeze, temperature wise, I was happy to stay home.  
> Now, as far as this chapter and the others to follow are concerned, Arduna had several suggestions at one point. I already had some of what she mentioned in mind to begin with and further expanded on it.
> 
> See note at bottom
> 
> ++++

_Same place we left everyone – The Louvre’s royal chamber, with only a handful of Musketeers and the rest being Red Guards to fight off the malcontents that have just barged in._

“ _D’ARTAGNAN!_ ” Hearing his name bellowed out in that manner usually meant only one thing to the Gascon… that he was in imminent danger of being killed. Placing a well-aimed kick in the mid-section of his attacker, sending the other man sprawling onto the ground, d’Artagnan whirled around and ducked his head just in time lest he be decapitated. Whipping out his main gauche he managed to stab his opponent in the left side. With his opposition out of commission, d’Artagnan saluted Aramis with his sword.

Acknowledging the pup’s salute, Aramis dipped his head. Having reloaded his muskets, he began picking off the enemy one by one. He knew Athos and Porthos had the king’s back and needn’t worry. Of course there were the Red Guards also protecting their young monarch, but in Aramis’ estimation the cardinal’s men were never quite up to snuff.

++++

All Treville knew was that certain heads were going to roll if they all lived through this. Were the Red Guards taking an unauthorized nap that allowed the Louvre to come under siege in this way? Parrying against another strike, Treville dealt his opponent a harsh blow with his own sword causing his enemy's weapon to fly out of the other man's hands. While trying not to have his own skin skewered, Treville could hear King Louis screaming shrilly in the background.

" _SOMEONE GIVE ME A SWORD!_ " King Louis yelled out. " _MON DIEU! I'LL SHOW THESE PEASANTS HOW A REAL KING DEFENDS HIS THRONE!_ "

"Oy! That's all we need!" Throwing two assailants against the wall, making each man bounce off it like rubber balls, Porthos rolled his eyes at Athos. "'Is Majesty's gettin' delusions of grandeur agin'."

Fighting back to back Athos and Porthos turned in a circle, taking on multiple attackers.

"You must... remember, Porthos," lunging forward Athos' blade connected with his target's mid-section," the king has... been on several... campaigns and survived."

"By the skin of 'is teeth and the 'elp of the Musketeers." Growling deep in his throat, Porthos dared the next unfortunate soul to take him on. His temper flared further, which usually meant he'd now rather shoot first and ask many questions later. Fist shooting out, as one of the other malcontents got too close for his liking, Porthos knocked the enemy unconscious. "'Ow's our whelp doin'?"

"Right now I'm more concerned on protecting His Majesty," Athos huffed. Secretly though he had been trying to keep tabs on d'Artagnan, while making sure the king didn't do anything stupid.

++++

Elsewhere, upon listening to the young monarch bellowing for a weapon, d'Artagnan became distracted allowing the enemy an easy opening. It was the feel of rushing air past d'Artagnan's ear that alarmed him to his own peril. Automatically bringing up his sword arm he managed to deflect a direct thrust from a malcontent's blade which would have surely maimed him or caused his death. 

Noting his protégé appeared to be in need of aid Athos, who didn't dare leave protection of the king to those simpletons the Red Guards, he whistled a set of three short bursts.

Aramis caught the signal that meant one of them was in dire straights. Scanning the chamber it seemed that nearly everyone was having problems. Then he noted that d'Artagnan was the one in need of a helping hand. Close enough to use his pistol, Aramis aimed and fired.

When the man he had been fighting dropped dead at d'Artagnan's feet, from a shot to the head, he knew who to give thanks to without even turning around. That's _two_ d'Artagnan owed Aramis now. Praying that he wouldn't make it three, he stepped over the deceased to charge into another fray.

Wishing he had his other sword, that d'Artagnan somehow lost along the way, he still took on two more malcontents with only his one rapier and main gauche. It was amazing, in a strange way, how the more malcontents were cut down, many others appeared in their place. His breathing becoming labored, d'Artagnan finally admitted to himself that his energy was beginning to flag. Listening to his inner voice, which sounded oddly like Aramis chiding him for taking on too much, he did his best to ignore it. Earlier d'Artagnan had told everyone that he was fine and fit for duty. Of course he hadn't been put through the riggers of sustaining fight after fight, like this one, since his near fatal injuries.

Stumbling over another prone body, literally under d'Artagnan's feet, it gave his opposition a prime opportunity to strike out and hit their mark. Knowing what was about to happen d'Artagnan quickly dropped to the ground, sparing his throat from being nearly slit clear across. Unfortunately he couldn't avoid a blade from another man coming at him from d'Artagnan's other side. Hissing in pain, when the malcontent's sword cut into the flesh of d'Artagnan's right arm, he staggered backward.

The two men d'Artagnan had been fighting with had believed they had the Gascon right where they wanted him, but Captain Treville stepped in when he realized the young soldier was in jeopardy. Crossing swords with the malcontents he noted the lad's pale features. Pain was etched on d'Artagnan's face but the youth was alive, in the long run, that's all that mattered.

Dipping his head in gratitude, d'Artagnan didn't waste time checking his wound. Switching his sword to his left hand he was more than ready to keep fighting, gritting his teeth against the pain of his injury.

Casting his eyes about the room to see best where he could be of use, d'Artagnan gaped at two figures standing in shock near the entrance to the royal chambers. First thing he noted was disappointment written clearly upon papa's face. Then the complete opposite was on Monsieur Lawrie's craggly features. If anything the latter appeared very proud.

Stunned at the appearance of the two men from his past, d'Artagnan could only helplessly stare into their eyes. Of all times papa could have decided to visit it had to be when d'Artagnan had gotten hurt right in front of the man. In papa's estimation it only proved how weak d'Artagnan believed himself to truly be.

Shaking the cobwebs out of his head, getting back to the business on hand, d'Artagnan's eyes widened in astonishment when papa and Monsieur joined the ruckus. Worry for them both filled his heart. Neither of them had seen battle for many a year. Yet who was he to hold the men back from defending His Majesty and France?

Speaking of the king, d'Artagnan's head swiveled around to seek him out and his heart stopped for a fraction of a beat. Everyone around their young monarch was so busy trying to defend King Louis that it left a small pocket open, leaving His Majesty vulnerable. Not if d'Artagnan had any say in it.

Oblivious to the immediate danger King Louis faced, he still shouted for someone to arm him. When d'Artagnan raced over to place himself in front of him, King Louis didn't understand at first. Soon, thereafter, he then realized the reason for it. One of the malconents had gotten close enough to stab King Louis with a poignard.

After d'Artagnan dispatched the king's would-be attacker, he made sure that no harm had come to His Majesty's person. Satisfied, he took King Louis by the arm and Cardinal Richelieu by the other. His brothers and the rest of the Red Guards had taken down enough of the enemy that d'Artagnan had a clear path to steer the two men to safety.

King Louis, of course, had wanted to stay and prove his worth in battle. Richelieu, however, tried to dissuade him. "D'Artagnan's risking his life to save us," he said dryly. "I believe it to be an unwise move on your part, Sire, to put yourself back out there in harm's way again."

Listening to the men continue on with their argument, d'Artagnan could only shake his head at His Majesty's stubborness. Having no time to waste, he blurted out, "I must go back."

"But you're already wounded, d'Artagnan." Frowning, King Louis remembered having nearly lost the young Gascon once before and wasn't in the mood to lose him a second time. "Non! I forbid it!"

Eyebrows rising in surprise, d'Artagnan thought he had heard wrong. Noting the cardinal rolling his eyes, from behind the king's back, d'Artagnan wasn't sure how to proceed. Was it the done thing to go against one's monarch in this instance? Fortunately he wouldn't have to find out, because Cardinal Richelieu stepped in.

"If d'Artagnan feels he can still fight alongside Captain Treville and his brothers, then by all means we should let him do so, Sire."

Disagreeing with the cardinal, King Louis' eyes continued to rest on the blood dripping onto the ground from d'Artagnan's right arm. Waving his hand angrily in the air, he stared hard at the young Gascon. "I shall take it very personally if you get yourself killed, d'Artagnan."

Despite the circumstances, d'Artagnan's lips curled upward. In His Majesty's own way he let him know what d'Artagnan meant to the king. With King Louis' words warming his heart d'Artagnan carried them into battle again.

++++

"Whoever put _good_ and _mornin'_ tagether deserves a good slap in the face!" Porthos grunted. It wasn't even noon yet. Merde! Wishing that he could climb back in bed to wake up thinking this was all a bad nightmare, Porthos' worried dark orbs searched the chamber anxiously for signs of the kid. "Where's the whelp?"

"Better yet," Athos snapped, having dispatched his last assailant, "where are the king and cardinal?"

"D'Artagnan just saved Louis' life," Treville offered his men. "Then the lad got them away from here."

"In true Gascon fashion." With a spark of pride shining in his eyes, Aramis placed his spent muskets and pistols back in his weapons belt.

"'Eh," pointing with his chin toward the two strangers that had helped them when they desperately needed extra hands, Porthos asked, "who are they?"

Now that they had prevailed, Treville ordered the Red Guard to remove the dead as well as taking the injured ones to the Chatelet. There the malcontent's wounds would be treated and they would then await execution at His Majesty's pleasure. "Old friends." Signaling to Alexandre and Verrill to approach, Jean-Armand threw both his arms around their shoulders bringing them all together for a group hug.

Bemused at the spectacle, the inseparables could only stand and stare waiting to be introduced.

"Gents, this is d'Artagnan's family." Pointing first to the taller of the two individuals, Treville smiled. "This is Alexandre d'Artagnan." Mmmmm on second thought perhaps he should have introduced Verrill first, noting three sets of scowls adorn the inseparable's faces upon meeting d'Artagnan's père. "And this old man is Verrill Lawrie."

Cocking a brow at Jean-Armand, Verrill's eyes danced. " _Old_ am I? I have a rapier here that would disabuse you of that notion." Eliciting a bark of laughter from both Jean-Armand and Alexandre, Verrill chuckled.

This time beaming grins lit up his men's faces, upon meeting d'Artagnan's former mentor. At least one of his friends met with their approval. It was time to now introduced Treville's finest soldiers to his best friends. "Alexandre... Verrill, these are the inseparables... Athos, Porthos and Aramis." Having pointed at each man separately, Treville noted how Porthos and Aramis preened but Athos simply stared straight ahead.

"I know of them from d'Artagnan's letters," Verrill remarked. Understanding the blank expression on Alexandre's face, he knew the lad wouldn't have bothered telling his père about these soldiers.

Stepping forward, Athos bowed to their visitors. "First let me say tis a pleasure to meet you both." Keeping his temper in check, Athos' blue eyes quickly passed over d'Artagnan's père. His pleasure obviously didn't extend toward Monsieur d'Artagnan but he tried hard not to let it outwardly show. "Secondly, as Captain Treville's lieutenant I give you our thanks for your aid in containing this unforeseen disaster that was heaped upon us."

"You speak well, Monsieur." This Musketeer spoke like a nobleman. Thinking that in another life Athos would have held such a position, Alexandre wouldn't have been surprised. Most of the king's regiment was made up of other such nobles who had bought their commissions into the regiment. But there was a look in Athos' sharp blue eyes that spoke of tempered steel. This one was not someone to be taken lightly.

Dipping his head, acknowledging Monsieur d'Artagnan's compliment, Athos stepped back in line with his brothers.

A smirk upon his lips, Verrill tilted his head at Jean-Armand. "We were simply in the neighborhood and decided to lend our swords to the cause."

Not voicing his thoughts out loud, Aramis knew he liked Monsieur Lawrie already. The other man not so much.

"Actually," throwing the inseparable's a sheepish look, Treville added something more, "I arranged this as a surprise for d'Artagnan."

"I'm sure d'Artagnan will appreciate the gesture, sir." Figuring someone had better say something, Aramis jumped in noting that Athos and Porthos were keeping silent.

"By the way," Athos interrupted, changing the subject to one that he could stomach, "whatever happened to Ambassador Aritza?" It appeared that the moment the royal chambers had been overrun with malcontents that the man had disappeared.

"His own men protected him and managed to get the ambassador to safety." A sour taste was left in Treville's mouth, upon noting that none of the Spaniards had come back to help them contain the malcontents. He could tell that his explanation didn't sit well with his men either.

Listening to the dark-skinned Musketeer mutter _cowards_ under his breath, Verrill was highly amused. With letters exchanged between himself and d'Artagnan, he had learned whom each man was along with their distinct personalities. _Porthos_ \- the protector... _Aramis_ \- the lover and man of God... _Athos_ \- mentor, big brother and father-figure all wrapped up into one. These were the men Verrill had hoped would shape d'Artagnan into the man he and Jean-Armand believed the lad could and would become.

"Where did my son go?" Last he knew the boy had gotten himself injured. Some Musketeer, Alexandre thought in distaste.

Stiffening his shoulders Athos shot Monsieur d'Artagnan a look that did not bode well for the older man, having read the other man's expression accurately. Hands at his back were the only thing preventing him from a harsh retort. "D'Artagnan just saved King Louis' life," he ground out.

Knowing he had missed that feat, Alexandre exchanged a quick look with Verrill. The latter casually shrugged one shoulder, as if to say it was no surprise to him.

"I saw it myself. Made me deuce proud to have had a hand in the lad's training." Staring into Athos' furious gaze, Verrill approved liking what he saw there.

"More than simply lending a _hand_ , Verrill. Don't downplay yourself, mon ami." Jean-Armand remarked. It was then that he heard someone entering the chamber again. Noting that it was d'Artagnan, Treville frowned realizing that the lad had been wounded. " _Mon Dieu!_ "

At their captain's exclamation, all heads turned.

" _Merde!_ " Removing his chapeau Aramis threw it on the floor in angry frustration. Their young one never seemed to catch a break. The Gascon's face was pale from blood loss and the lad began swaying slightly. Rushing over to d'Artagnan's side Aramis murmured soothing words to the pup. Touching his brother's right arm, Aramis tried to assess the damage without hurting d'Artagnan further. Clucking his tongue, he helped the youth remove his doublet. Ripping open the sleeve of the pup's bloody shirt, Aramis noted that the blade had not penetrated d'Artagnan's flesh deeply. "This needs cleaned up and stitched now before infection sets in." Gently patting his friend's face, he held up a finger. "No arguments, mon frere."

With a rueful nod of his head, d'Artagnan knew it was useless to argue with Aramis when he was in medic mode. "Before you drag me away may I say a few words to papa?"

Lips tightening with concern, Aramis reluctantly agreed. "Oui."

With Aramis keeping a firm hold on d'Artagnan, they rejoined the group. "Papa, tis good to see you after all this time." Unconsciously seeking approval his eyes met with none. His gaze then slid Monsieur Lawrie's way. What papa's eyes lacked were more than made up for in his older friend's features.

Clasping d'Artagnan's uninjured arm, Verrill's face was wreathed in smiles. "Tis so good to be here with you, d'Artagnan." Watching Aramis observing the blood that continued to slowly leak through the thin fabric of the lad's shirt, Verrill understood that the marksman was eager to treat the wound. "Much as I want to catch up now," his lips twisted, "I would much rather see your injury tended to."

Grimacing in pain, now that d'Artagnan had been reminded of his arm, he threw one last look at his silent parent. Apparently nothing had changed as far as papa was concerned. So obediently he let Aramis lead him from the chamber, with Porthos and Athos following close behind.

"Just like an honor guard." Having spoken low, Verrill should have known Jean-Armand's keen hearing would have caught his words.

"Non." Tilting his head toward Alexandre, Jean-Armand gazed sadly at his friend silently getting his message across to Verrill.

Verrill had always been good at reading between the lines. Jean-Armand's expression spoke volumes. The inseparables had sent their own message. They would protect d'Artagnan at all costs. Even if that threat included Alexandre.

++++

_Note:_

_Quote: "Whoever put good and morning together deserves a good slap in the face!"_ \- from Aunty Acid.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See notes at bottom.
> 
> ++++

_Same day, After the noon hour - Garrison infirmary_

"Ouch, Aramis! That hurt!" whined the young Gascon.

Patting d'Artagnan's cheek, Aramis went back to stitching up the lad's arm. "Poor petit Gascon enfant."

Pulling a sour face at his older friend, d'Artagnan retorted, "You're enjoying my pain way too much for my liking."

Concentrating on his needlework, Aramis' eyes barely met the pain-filled brown orbs so close to him. "Wasn't that long ago that Doctor Devereaux and I were patching you up, if you remember." Tying off the last of his neat stitches he put aside the needle. "I didn't expect to find myself doing it again so soon. Tis become a habit with you." Standing back he admired his handiwork. "Not bad even if I do say so myself." Grinning at the scowl on the pup's face, Aramis noted the younger man's growing silence.

"If I do not tease you so I may end up lecturing you instead." Raising a brow, Aramis tilted his head to the side studying the youth. "Which would have been more preferable, mon ami?" The absence of a reply was not lost on him. Placing a fingertip under the Gascon's chin he tipped it up. "It lessens the burden if you share your thoughts. Mmmmm?" Such a heart wrenching sigh escaped from the depth of d'Artagnan's soul, telling Aramis more than any words could convey, that he was sorry he had tried to prod the lad. Still patiently Aramis waited for d'Artagnan to share his troubled mind, though it didn't take a genius like himself to guess what was bothering the pup.

"Papa hasn't changed at all. I was hoping to see something different in him." His words were uttered so quietly that his brother had to lean in close to hear d'Artagnan. Trying not to let bitterness fill him he gave the marksman a shaky smile but found his lips trembling instead. Then suddenly he was engulfed in the warmth of Aramis' embrace, wrapping d'Artagnan up in love.

Feeling the lad shaking in his arms tore at Aramis. D'Artagnan could face down any danger and laugh in its face. Not so when that _danger_ turned out to be the pup's père. What Aramis wouldn't do to give Alexandre d'Artagnan a piece of his mind. Ah, but that was for another time. Right at this minute he felt some levity wouldn't go amiss so he whispered in his friend's ear. "Now you wouldn't want Athos and Porthos believing my stitching hurt you that badly do you?" 

Swiping a hand over his eyes, d'Artagnan shyly ducked his head away. "Non." Glancing about the room the absence of the other two men felt strange. Whenever one of them was hurt, usually they all gathered around. "Now that you mentioned it, where are they?"

"Outside standing guard of course," Aramis smirked.

Confused eyes rested on the marksman. "Against what?"

"Anything that would unduly upset you, mon frere." Knowing d'Artagnan would understand his cryptic response, Aramis went to speak with his other two friends.

Upon noting that Captain Treville had come inside, along with his brothers, d'Artagnan immediately stood up coming to attention. Something he shouldn't have done so quickly as his vision swam.

"Easy, lad." Looking over d'Artagnan's wound, Treville's lips tightened. "I came to see how serious your injury was."

"Nothing that I can't work through, sir." Glancing over the captain's shoulder, d'Artagnan's eyes saddened.

"I left them both back in my office." Understanding whom d'Artagnan thought he'd see with him, Treville patted the young man's shoulder. "If you feel up to it Louis would like to speak with you."

Blanching, d'Artagnan's face turned white as powder which in turn made Aramis rush over to the pup's side, afraid the Gascon was going to pass out on them.

"I'm fine!" Trying to push Aramis away d'Artagnan rolled his eyes when his brother began checking him over again.

"Sir," Athos spoke up, "tis better to tell d'Artagnan than leave him guessing."

"I believe Louis simply wants to extend his appreciation to you for rescuing him and the cardinal, d'Artagnan." Ah! Now the lad's color was returning.

"Twas only doing my duty, Captain."

Modestly said and what Treville had anticipated from their youngest. "And you did it admirably at that." Scratching behind his ear he was slightly uncomfortable about imparting his next words. It hadn't been an enjoyable reunion between d'Artagnan and Alexandre as Treville had hoped. He was glad extending the invitation to Verrill turned out to be the right call. "About your père being here that was my doing, son." Crossing his arms, Treville rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. "Twas meant as a surprise for you as was Verrill's appearance."

Not sure about his protégé's lack of reaction to the captain's news, Athos moved closer to the pup's side in silent support.

"I know your heart was in the right place, Captain." Refusing to look the older officer in the face, d'Artagnan became fascinated with the tiled floor. 

Wincing at the youth's anguished tone, Treville could have happily punched Alexandre in the jaw.

Not wanting to seem ungrateful d'Artagnan added, "I'm very pleased to see Monsieur Lawrie made the journey."

One out of two wasn't bad, Treville thought. That was something at least. "I figured with them both here it would give us a reason to all go out tonight." Crossing his fingers behind his back, Treville prayed d'Artagnan would easily agree and so tried to sweeten the prospect all the more. "Athos, Porthos and Aramis are included in that invitation as well." Noting d'Artagnan perk up slightly at that part, Treville refrained from grinning in satisfaction. "We'll partake of a good meal and share several bottles of fine wine together."

"Pfft!" Athos quietly snorted. "I do not need a _reason_ to enjoy a little wine. I just need a glass." The twitch of d'Artagnan's lips was well worth the effort of his small jest. His only worry for now was that, when they did dine later, Athos' temper wouldn't get the best of him if the lad's père slighted d'Artagnan in any way.

"Captain, I would happily return with you to the palace to present myself to His Majesty," glancing down at his torn and bloody shirt, d'Artagnan grimaced, "but first I must clean myself up and change into fresh clothes." Needing help with his doublet he found Porthos patiently waiting to help him into it.

"Report to my office when ready then, son."

When the door closed shut behind the captain, d'Artagnan turned worried eyes upon his friends. "I'll depend on all of you to limit my wine consumption tonight less my unruly tongue loosens and I forget myself."

Chuckling, Porthos gently steered the whelp out the door. "Sometimes, kid," he winked at their young one, "my greatest accomplishment is just keepin' my mouth shut." Slapping d'Artagnan lightly on the back, Porthos grinned. "You'll do all right."

"I have to say that Porthos still needs to work on that _accomplishment_." Clapping his hands, Aramis laughed.

"Do not worry, d'Artagnan, we have your back... always." Squeezing the nape of his protégé's neck, Athos felt the pup lean into his touch.

With a wink of his own, along with a devilish glint in his eyes, Aramis slyly added, "If all else fails, lad, remember always be sincere... even if you don't mean it."

"More words to live by if I want to be a _good_ Musketeer eh, Aramis?" d'Artagnan murmured, his shoulders shaking with amusement.

"Mmmmm," Aramis hummed. "I've found that it pays off dividends in our line of work." Watching their youngest take the steps down to the courtyard below, Aramis exchanged a nod with his brothers. All of them would indeed have the pup's back, come what may, and deuce with the consequences!

++++

_An hour later - Royal Palace, King Louis' chambers_

A royal hand firmly gripped the young Gascon's shoulder. "You acquitted yourself as I expected you would, d'Artagnan." Releasing his hold King Louis sat back down at his desk. "I wanted to personally give you my thanks along with this small token of my esteem." Reaching down he pulled open a desk drawer. "Give me your sword hand." When the young Musketeer obeyed his command, King Louis slipped a perfectly cut ruby ring, in a solid gold setting, onto the lad's finger. It was a perfect fit, as if it had been sized for the Gascon alone. Satisfied with his gift, King Louis enjoyed the shock that enveloped the youth and his old fox too from what he could judge by Treville's slack-jawed reaction.

Falling to his knees, before the young monarch, d'Artagnan was at a loss to express his emotions but he tried to all the same. "Sire... I didn't... didn't expect a reward."

"You are my champion, d'Artagnan." Beaming with pride King Louis smiled, showing off a full set of gleaming white teeth. "I've not been disappointed in receiving you into my regiment. You've done nothing but made me proud." Pointing to the ring he tapped a finger on the gemstone. "I know you cannot wear it during your regular duties," he studied the way the light bounced off the red gem, "just promise me to wear it when on parade or when assigned to the palace."

Gaining his feet, d'Artagnan shakily nodded his agreement. "I'll wear it with honor, Your Majesty." Bowing he kissed the hand the king held out to him.

"Oh, Captain," crooking a finger at the officer, King Louis indicated for Treville to come closer, "a word if you will."

Patting d'Artagnan on the shoulder, Treville let the young Gascon past him and out the door. Raising a questioning brow at the king, he approached curious as to what else Louis needed.

"I trust dinner tonight will be pleasant?" Noting the older man wince, King Louis began to grow concern. His old fox had entrusted some of d'Artagnan's past with him and was simply checking that plans hadn't changed.

"Tis to be hoped for, Sire."

"Very well. Keep me apprised."

"As ever." With a smile touching Treville's lips, he bowed and departed.

++++

_Early evening - Colombe Blanche Inn_

Keeping up their end of the conversation had been trying for the inseparables, when it came to dealing with Monsieur d'Artagnan's barbed remarks. With Monsieur Lawrie it was like speaking with an old, cherished friend.

Athos worried over d'Artagnan's silence during their meal. He and his brothers, true to their promise, had kept the youth to only one glass of wine and a single lager. The looks that were traded between his protégé and the lad's père were not what Athos would have considered welcoming. And whoa! What was it that he just heard coming out of Monsieur d'Artagnan's mouth? Something to the affect of how a man of color, like Porthos, came from the slums to become a Musketeer. It was stated in quite a bold fashion. Obviously the man's words were not meant to be kind. One could tell that simply from the sneer on Monsieur d'Artagnan's expression.

Slamming his tankard down hard on the table, Porthos leaned back in his chair looking down his nose at the older Gascon. Normally the question wouldn't have bothered him, if asked in a sincere way, but Monsieur d'Artagnan's words were an insult and meant to be taken as such. "So ya don't like me?" Eyes sliding toward the whelp, he winked. "That's OK, I don't wake up every day ta impress ya."

Good for you Porthos. Blue eyes shifting to d'Artagnan, Athos didn't like what he saw burning in their depths. Placing a hand on the lad's arm, he tilted his head closer to whisper, "Speak when you are angry and you will make the best speech you will ever regret."

Shaking off his mentor's hand, d'Artagnan had had more than enough. Papa could make all the untoward comments he liked as long as they were directed at himself. Start picking on his brothers though was not going to sit well with him. "Stop it, papa!" he angrily hissed.

"Ah, he speaks." Taking a slow sip of his wine, Alexandre observed his son. "Thought the cat got your tongue there fore a time, Charles."

"Speak to me as you will but," stabbing a finger in the air, d'Artagnan's voice roughened, "leave my friends alone!"

"So if I were to ask Athos how a former Comte found himself becoming a Musketeer," smirking, Alexandre continued, "you'd take up your sword against me?" Noting Charles' astonishment, he took another sip of his drink. "I did my homework on your friends." Setting his empty glass aside, Alexandre's eyes landed on each soldier.

"One from the Cour des Miracles," snorting unpleasantly, Alexandre acknowledged the dark-skinned Musketeer with a dip of his head. "A would-be priest that has a penchant for married or widowed Mesdames." Noting Aramis' gripping tightly to his own wine glass, Alexandre assumed that the marksman would have preferred it to have been Alexandre's neck instead. "Lastly," he lifted his refilled glass in the air for a toast, "there's your mentor... the Comte de la Fere. Working his way from tavern to tavern, eventually ending up at the Garrison." Finishing his wine, Alexandre couldn't have said who was more surprised at his son's response. Himself or his companions.

Shoving back his chair so hard that it toppled over, d'Artagnan surged upward slamming both hands so hard on the table that it shook all the glasses. " _I MEANT IT WHEN I TOLD YOU TO STOP!_ " he shouted then lowered his voice. "I don't care what you think of me personally but I take great exception to you smearing my brother's good names in the dirt!" Catching looks of approval from both his captain and Monsieur Lawrie, d'Artagnan thought little of it at the time.

Pulling the lad back down into his seat, Athos' eyes shone with pride. Then he directed a face set in stone toward Monsieur d'Artagnan. "You of all people should not cast stones," he spat. His earlier words of warning to his protégé long forgotten. "You are a poor example of what a parent should be! I have never seen the like before!"

"How dare you!" Alexandre sputtered furiously.

"I _dare_ because tis the truth!" His own rage building, Athos tried to keep his emotions in check. A quick glance around the room told him what he already knew, that they were the focus of attention. He was positive that soon they would be asked to leave this establishment.

"You're a right sad sight for sure." Growling his displeasure, Porthos bared his teeth in anger. "An don't deserve a son like d'Art 'ere. Whelp's got more integrity in 'is little finger than ya got in your entire body."

Turning red in the face, Alexandre was going to get up to leave the table but found himself held securely by both arms. Jean-Armand held his left and Verrill his right. Effectively keeping him seated. "Let go of me this instant!"

"You need something to wake you up to reality," Treville snapped. "Tis about time you heard some harsh home truths, Alexandre!" This was hard for his old friend to endure but something that had been way past due to come out in the open.

Knowing all eyes were focused on their table Aramis, at first, could have cared less. Stabbing Monsieur d'Artagnan with a deadly look he spoke in low tones, deciding that he didn't want all of them to become a sideshow for the other patrons after all. "That young man not so long ago nearly died saving myself, Athos and Porthos during an assignment! He sacrificed his life for the sake of our brotherhood!" His fists slowly clenched and unclenched, wanting very badly to smash the man's arrogant face in.

"You have belittled d'Artagnan through no fault of his ever since the lad was a mere petit garcon." Glowering, Athos' patience had vanished completely. So much for being known as emotionless when faced off against the opposition. He was sure Porthos and Aramis would tease him about it at some point in time.

After his brothers had their say, d'Artagnan's dark eyes turned into hardened steel. "My friends have finally made me see that I'm not worthless! Not expendable!" Done with obeying this stranger that wore papa's face, d'Artagnan sneered. "Something you've excelled at extremely well, papa." A sad smile crossed his face. "Tis taken listening to you belittling them that made me see the light." Trying to remember his mentor's teachings of _head over heart_ , he took in several deep breaths. "I'm taking back my life and living it the way I was meant to do." Glancing at his brothers, d'Artagnan dipped his head in respect. "I have good role models to emulate after all."

++++

_Notes:_

_Quote: "I don't need a reason to enjoy a little wine. I just need a glass."_ \- from Aunty Acid  
_Quote: "Sometimes my greatest accomplishment is just keeping my mouth shut."_ \- from Aunty Acid.  
_Quote: "Remember always be sincere... even if you don't mean it."_ \- from Aunty Acid  
_Quote: "So you don't like me? That's ok, I don't wake up every day to impress you."_ \- from Aunty Acid.  
_Quote: "Speak when you are angry and you will make the best speech you will ever regret."_ \- from Ambrose Bierce. (June 24, 1842 – circa 1914) was an American Civil War soldier, wit, and writer.  
_Translation: Colombe Blanche_ \- White Dove


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As I've been sick at home with the flu/now a bad head cold since Tues., I finally felt like tackling another chapter.  
> Hope it makes sense as my brain's still a bit muddled from being ill.
> 
> See notes at bottom.
> 
> ++++

_Same night, late evening - Garrison barracks_

Surrounded by his friend's protective circle around his bed, d'Artagnan sat cross-legged on it. Running a hand over his face, d'Artagnan's eyes were bleak. "Now tis over I can't believe I finally faced up to him." Fingers lightly ran through his hair. Glancing upward into a pair of twinkling blue eyes d'Artagnan's own lost their sorrow.

"How did it feel?" Sitting on the edge of the pup's bed Aramis casually crossed his legs, long fingers gliding up and down the chain of the cross he wore.

"It felt good." Listening to Porthos' chuckles, d'Artagnan's laughter mingled with his brother's. "Imagine," he pushed back a lank of hair that had gotten into his face, "it only took over ten years to work up the courage." Picking at some loose threads on his shirt, d'Artagnan's lips pursed. "I've often wondered does anybody else have more conversations in their head than they do in real life, or is that just me?" Noting the expressive smirks and arched brows he received in reaction to his question, d'Artagnan took that to mean it had never happened to any of them unless they were lying. "Anyway, that was one conversation I had played over and over again to myself, wanting nothing more than to speak my mind but never having the nerve to get it out in the open before."

"Until your père poked fun at your brothers, eh?" Ruffling the whelp's hair, Porthos shared a long look with Athos and Aramis over the kid's head. "I couldn't 'ave put it better than ya did. Exceptin' I might 'ave given your père extra incentive ta go back ta Lupiac." Leaving d'Artagnan's hair be for the moment, he began toying with the pup's poignard that was laying on the night stand. Winking at the wide-eyed look the whelp gave him, Porthos was certain his meaning had gotten across. "A bit of coercion now and then never 'urt anyone." With Aramis' snort of amusement in his ear, Porthos grinned. "Bien, anyone I left alive that is."

"Are you saying I should have threatened papa with a weapon to get him to listen to me before?" Not believing that would have been the wisest course to follow, d'Artagnan noted the pleased expression gracing his larger friend's features.

"'Ey, kid," grabbing a chair Porthos dragged it toward the bed, "just because I give ya advice doesn't mean I'm smarter than ya. It just means I've done more stupid stuff than ya."

"More words to live by, d'Artagnan." Patting the young Gascon's leg, Aramis nodded his agreement with Porthos.

"I think all of you make up your own rules as you go along," d'Artagnan scoffed. "I bet if I asked the captain about all these so-called _rules_ you guys constantly spout off to me, he'd be shocked."

"Tis what has kept us alive thus far, d'Artagnan." Slowly drawling out his words, Athos observed his protégé reach for something from the night stand.

"Nearly forgot to show all of you what His Majesty gave me in gratitude for saving his life." Placing the ruby ring onto the palm of Athos' hand, d'Artagnan awaited his mentor's response.

Staring at the sparkling gem, Athos was bereft of the usual pleasantries one would bestow upon receiving such an expensive gift. While continuing to admire its craftsmanship, it was suddenly plucked from his fingers.

"I know someone who'd give ya good coin for a piece like this, kid."

Grinning good naturedly at Porthos' remark, d'Artagnan's fingers wriggled at his brother to give him the ring back. Then again he'd forgotten it was Aramis' turn to admire it. The marksman immediately snatched the ring from Porthos' grasp causing the larger man to scowl at his friend in turn. "I wasn't done lookin'."

"Oui," Aramis huffed. "You were." Holding the ring close to the candlelight, he studied its quality. "Another rule of thumb to live by, d'Artagnan," he carefully handed the ring back to the lad, "is that when bestowed with something so valuable that could see you through several months worth of new clothes, weapons, and the such, tis the done thing to sale it."

"Gentlemen," with a dark look passing over his face, Athos' disappointment with their suggestions to d'Artagnan was quite evident, "let the lad make his own decisions."

"We're just explaining the facts of Garrison life around here to our youngest." Reaching out Aramis gently closed d'Artagnan's fingers over His Majesty's gift.

"I believe I shall keep this anyway, Aramis." Staring at his newly acquired possession d'Artagnan handed it over to Athos' keeping "Will you keep that ring along with your own valuables for me? I don't have a safe enough place here for it."

"Of course, d'Artagnan." Pocketing the ring, Athos caught Porthos' and Aramis' attention rest on himself. Both wore expressions he couldn't easily interpret. "I think it a wise decision d'Artagnan chose."

"Besides," stretching on the bed like a cat then following up with a huge yawn, d'Artagnan rubbed at his eyes, "King Louis expects me to wear his token whenever I'm on parade or palace duty."

Twin _ahs_ of understanding were spouted from Aramis and Porthos in tandem. "So you see I couldn't pawn the ring even if I desired to do so." Another yawn escaped d'Artagnan.

"Let us leave the lad in peace. He needs his rest." Picking up his chapeau from the table, patting the pocket that the ring had been safely tucked into, with a nod at his protégé Athos ushered the others out the door.

++++

_Next day, mid-morning - Captain Treville's office_

Having found himself summoned to the captain's office, d'Artagnan figured it had to do with last eve's confrontation with papa. A quick rap on the door and soon he found his feet taking him inside Captain Treville's office. Upon noting Monsieur Lawrie was present, d'Artagnan's steps hesitated.

Waving the lad further into the room, Treville's broad smile showed the young Gascon that this would be a friendly visit. "Come in, son."

"I must say, lad," chuckling, Verrill gazed upon his former pupil with fondness, "when you decide to stand up for yourself you do it in grand style."

Blushing to the roots of his hair d'Artagnan didn't at first know how to respond to the compliment, if that's how he was meant to take it. Thinking a more casual response was called for, d'Artagnan lightly shrugged. "Usually some things are better left unsaid." Casually perching on the corner of the captain's desk, he held out his hand to take the glass of brandy Captain Treville offered him. "Which I generally realize right after I've said them. Case in point... what happened last night was unfortunate but I found the words tripping off my tongue before I could prevent them."

"Ha!" Standing in front of his youngest Musketeer, Treville clapped d'Artagnan on the shoulder. "Bien, I think Porthos has finally rubbed off on you."

"All of them have." Arching a brow, d'Artagnan canted his head slightly to the right. "Which I believe had been your intention all along upon my arrival to the Garrison."

"I know one thing, lad," studying the youthful features, Verrill was transported back in time to when he had first begun training d'Artagnan, "you defended your king with honor and made me a very proud man by knowing I had some part in your training."

"If only papa felt that way." Grief filled his eyes once more, thinking of all the wasted years that had passed between them.

"Alexandre lives with blinders on, son." Sipping his brand, Treville stared into the nearly empty glass. "He needed them ripped away." Raising his glass in salute to the lad, he laughed. "Which you did remarkably well last eve."

"I doubt it changed his feelings toward me," d'Artagnan groaned into his hands. "I've lived with papa's indifference for so long now that it shouldn't bother me any longer." Running a hand up and down the back of his neck, he sighed in resignation. "A leopard doesn't change its spots so why should I have expected papa to have changed toward me?"

"I'm just glad I had the privilege of seeing years worth of training pay off, d'Artagnan." After revealing his pride to the lad, Verrill bumped shoulders with the youth. "Besides I'm sure somewhere deep down inside that block of ice Alexandre calls a heart he felt the same way. The man just can't find it within himself to express it to you."

"I would have been stunned if papa had," d'Artagnan truthfully admitted. When I finished speaking my mind I fully expected papa to turn right around and head for home." Noting the silent exchange taking place between his captain and Monsieur, d'Artagnan became uneasy. "I see," he hung his head down. "Papa is leaving then."

"He should be readying his mount right about now." Sorrow filled Treville's heart for d'Artagnan. The reunion, he had held out such high hopes of becoming a joyous occasion, had gone completely awry.

"Despite papa's preference to ignore me," his emotions in turmoil, there was one thing d'Artagnan needed to do, "I at least want to bid him adieu." Striding for the door he slammed it shut behind him with a resounding bang.

++++

_Courtyard_

Not aware at how his exit from the captain's office had made the two older men jump and wince, d'Artagnan's long strides eventually led him to the Garrison stables. It was there he discovered papa securing the cinch on his saddle.

Casually leaning against one of the posts d'Artagnan crossed his legs, silently observing papa. "So you were what? Simply going to leave without a word to me?"

A slight stiffening of Alexandre's shoulder blades had been the only indication that he gave, showing that his son had taken him by surprise. Completing his mental check list of things Alexandre knew he needed for the journey home he kept his back turned away from his son, continuing to ignore Charles' presence.

"Why did you even bother to come in the first place?"

Biting his lower lip, Alexandre resolved not to answer that question. Then knowing the boy wanted only honesty from him, he turned to face Charles. "I wanted to see you wearing the uniform of a Musketeer." Noting stunned amazement register on the lad's face, Alexandre then reached for his saddle bags. "You fill it out as I knew you would."

Sounding almost proud of him, d'Artagnan was truly confused. "Then why your reaction at the palace when I was injured?" He held up a warning finger. "Don't lie! For I saw your face filled with disappointment."

"At first tis because I thought you had gotten sloppy in your execution. Then afterward, finding out you had saved King Louis' life without a thought for yourself, I knew I was wrong in my assessment."

"You certainly didn't act that way last eve," d'Artagnan snapped.

"Your choice of friends is what held my tongue." The frown that marred Charles' features told him how displeased the boy was at Alexandre's truthfulness.

"Mes freres have made me stronger than I've ever been." Stepping closer to papa d'Artagnan ran a hand over the smooth flank of the nervous horse, who undoubtedly felt the tension in the air. "Monsieur Lawrie began preparing me for life as a Musketeer and the inseparables have continued schooling me in that process." Peeking out at papa from behind his long bangs, d'Artagnan cheekily added, "I learn something new everyday. Especially dirty fighting tactics in hand-to-hand that Porthos teaches." The bone of contention between them now appeared to be d'Artagan's brothers, which would have been the very last thing he would have guessed. "If that is what now stands in your way of telling me I've finally found your favor," d'Artagnan stepped back, pointing to papa's horse, "then by all means do not let me tarry your departure.

With a jerky nod at Charles, Alexandre led his horse out of the stables. Words he wanted to say tugged at him but for whatever reason refused to be voiced. Thinking back to last eve, Alexandre had silently applauded the lad standing up to him at dinner. What he had not appreciated were the unkind words being bombarded his way from everyone present.

He had many sins to atone for, Alexandre understood that. The most important of them being that he had failed at protecting Francoise when she had needed him the most. The second of great import was how Alexandre had treated Charles. Oui, he knew what a batard he had been to his son. He didn't need Verrill to keep reminding him of that every time they met. Thinking that this visit could put them back on course, Alexandre had looked forward to it. But alas, old habits died a hard death, he found himself being the recipient of a well deserved tongue-lashing and hadn't enjoyed feeling reprimanded as one would a petit.

Emerging from the stable, Alexandre was unprepared for the sounds of pistol and musket fire filling the courtyard. It wasn't from a training session either, as he heard shouts and screams coming from the soldiers in the area. When Alexandre found himself unceremoniously pushed to the ground, a rush of air left his lungs. Discovering that the uncomfortable weight crushing him was Charles, he complained loudly over all the racket going on. "Confound you! I need to breath!"

"That was nearly your last _breath!_ " d'Artagnan shouted. "A musket ball narrowly missed hitting your head!"

"What the deuce is it this time around?" Alexandre barked. "First the attack at the Louvre and now here in the Garrison! Tis ridiculous!"

"It appears there were more malcontents waiting in the wings than we estimated." Firing his pistol d'Artagnan shot one of the malcontents off his horse. "Looks like they somehow got past our security." Ushering papa back inside the stable, d'Artagnan wanted to make sure he'd stay put. Glaring fiercely at his parent, he warned him. "No heroics like you and Monsieur pulled at the palace."

A gleam in Alexandre's eyes came and went quickly. "Who are you to give me orders?"

"A king's Musketeer." With that swift response, d'Artagnan rushed back outside.

"Mon Dieu!" Not a man to be idle, Alexandre was certainly not going to follow the boy's command. Priming his musket first, Alexandre then pulled his rapier out of its sheath that had been secured to his mount. "I've not got one foot in the grave yet," he muttered, crashing open the stall doors with a hard kick of his boot, "no matter what Charles feels."

With utter chaos reigning all around him, and the grounds being overrun by at least over a dozen armed men clashing against the Musketeer's weapons, Alexandre didn't know where he would be needed the most. "I've got to remember to tell Jean-Armand he needs to secure those Garrison gates better. This would never have happened in my day." Taking aim at a malcontent about to fire at Athos' back, Alexandre fired off a shot hitting the enemy in the stomach.

Twisting around to see who had timely intervened in saving his life, Athos spotted the smoking musket that belonged to Monsieur d'Artagnan. The older man was currently near the stable entrance. Dipping his head in thanks Athos didn't have time to dither, immediately going over to lend aid to Porthos take on four opponents.

Lunging forward, Porthos' sword pierced the chest of another imbecile trying to take him down. With a side glance at Athos, he nudged his brother's shoulder. "Da ya know what I'm thinkin' right now?" When Athos simply gave him a blank stare, Porthos grinned. "Non. Neither do I."

Rolling his eyes, Athos tapped his larger brother on the arm with his rapier. "Your wit never ceases to amaze me, mon ami."

Having listened to what Porthos had just said, Aramis couldn't help but voice his own opinion. "Porthos' mind is a blank slate when fighting the enemy, Athos, you should know better than that."

"Better ta be a smartass than a dumbass." Heartily laughing at his own jest, Porthos slapped Aramis on the back so hard he nearly knocked the marksman off his feet.

"I swear you don't know your own strength at times." With a rueful shake of his head, Aramis noted his particular skills were needed elsewhere. With a tip of his chapeau at his friends, he raced over to where d'Artagnan appeared to need an extra hand.

++++

Engrossed in his own battle, d'Artagnan's blade crossed his assailant's. Steel clashed hot and fast against one another but he came out of the fight unscathed, in the end knocking the sword from the malcontent's hand. With the tip of his rapier teasing underneath his opponent's chin, d'Artagnan taunted. "Surrender or die. Though I'd prefer the latter if you would." When the other man threw both hands up in the air, getting on his knees, d'Artagnan realized he was the victor.

Not given long to savor his victory a wrenching cry broke through all the noise around d'Artagnan. Casting his eyes about, searching for the person who no doubt was injured, d'Artagnan's heart was in his throat when he spotted him. It would be much later when the inseparables would fill d'Artagnan in on what transpired after that. For now all he could do was scream. " _PAPA! NOOOOO!_ "

++++

_Don't shoot me because I left this chapter with sort of a cliffy (evil grin back here)._

++++

_Notes:_

_Quote: "I've often wondered does anybody else have more conversations in their head than they do in real life, or is that just me?"_ \- from Aunty Acid.

 _Quote: "Just because I give you advice doesn't mean I'm smarter than you. It just means I've done more stupid stuff than you."_ \- from Aunty Acid.

 _Quote: "Some things are better left unsaid. Which I generally realize right after I've said them."_ \- from Aunty Acid.

 _Quote: "Do you know what I'm thinking right now? Non. Neither do I."_ \- from Aunty Acid.

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well I wanted this to be the last chapter but it didn't work out quite that way. So enjoy!
> 
> See notes at bottom.
> 
> ++++

_Same day... same time... same place_

With weapon fire throughout the Garrison, d'Artagnan's anguished cry managed to reach each of the inseparables.

Frozen in place, at the sound of the young Gascon's voice, Athos finished off his attacker to observe his protégé rushing over to a downed figure. The foolish lad wasn't even having a care for his own safety, exposed out in the open as d'Artagnan was.

Porthos thought the same thing, while watching the whelp zig zag his way across the courtyard toward the direction of the stable.

Being the closest to their young one's position Aramis followed d'Artagnan's path, shooting down any malcontents that thought they'd take a pot shot at their Gascon. When the youth's lean body dropped to its knees, Aramis' dark eyes then widened in dismay. " _Mon Dieu!_ " Then it was he and the pup both hovering over the prone figure of d'Artagnan's père.

Having to shove the lad out of the way, to give him room to work, Aramis unwound his blue sash. He began using it to staunch the flow of blood spurting out from a wound just below the older Gascon's left shoulder, but yet not close enough to Monsieur d'Artagnan's heart.

Normally d'Artagnan was very useful in these type of situations, as Aramis had many times passed on his medical knowledge to the younger man. However since this involved the lad's père he believed the pup to be in shock, therefore d'Artagnan became someone Aramis couldn't rely on to help him tend Monsieur d'Artagnan. Speaking low but urgently in the youth's ear he said, "I need you with me, mon frere." Trying to concentrate on his patient, not getting any response whatsoever from d'Artagnan, Aramis had to depend on his fellow Musketeers to give them cover while they were all out in the open.

For a moment Aramis contemplated dragging the injured man into the stable. He nixed that idea almost as soon as he thought upon it, because Aramis couldn't count on d'Artagnan being capable of helping him. Uncomfortable memories of Savoy popped into his head just then. The lad was acting almost as Aramis had when surrounded by twenty dead brother-in-arms. For the moment he could only worry about one of them. D'Artagnan would have to wait.

Clutching papa's hand tightly, in fear that if d'Artagnan let go so would the man whom he had parted from in anger, his eyes filled with tears. Deaf to the sounds of fighting surrounding them, all his senses were focused on one individual... the man who all but ignored him since the age of nine years. He had realized that Aramis had been speaking to him, that much had registered in his head at the time, but d'Artagnan couldn't be bothered to reply. All he cared about were the words that had yet to be spoken between papa and himself.

++++

Athos and Porthos kept their friends covered. But what concerned Athos even further was that he could tell that Aramis appeared worried for more than Monsieur d'Artagnan's well-being. Noting the marksman kept looking back and forth between the injured man and the pup told Athos that something must be wrong with his protégé as well. Tapping Porthos on the shoulder, he indicated to his brother that he was moving closer to Aramis' position.

Dodging stray pistol and musket shots, Athos threw himself down beside Aramis. "How goes it?" Blue eyes settled on the pain-filled, deathly pale, face of Monsieur d'Artagnan. The blue sash was soaked through with the older man's blood. A trivial thought quickly came and went to Athos that the sash, forever stained now, would never adorn Aramis' waist again.

"We have to get him to the infirmary sooner rather than later!" Shouting over the din of battle, Aramis ducked his head just in time when an explosion near the stable sent debris high into the air. Glancing over his shoulder, Aramis grimaced. There were a few more bodies added to the mix of casualties this day, that he could see. None of them, Dieu soit loué, were Musketeers.

" _Merde!"_ Porthos violently swore. "Duval's shot went wide and 'it a keg of gunpowder!"

"What the deuce was that keg doing out in the open in the first place?" Scowling in displeasure, Athos vowed to track down the soldier who had been derelict in his duty. Whomever it was should have made sure that keg had been secured in their armory where it should have been in the first place.

"Don't know!" Firing off a musket and pistol, one in each hand, Porthos was a tad to busy to give Athos' his full attention. "And now," he brought down a malcontent about to pierce Rene's chest, "I don't rightly care!" The younger Musketeer bowed toward Porthos in thanks for saving him. Grinning, he shouted out, "Ya can buy me a drink later at The Wren, Rene!"

Casting about for any Musketeers that were free to lend aid, Athos spotted Willalme, Duguay, Fabien and Anton. A sharp whistle from him, and a mad waving of both arms, had all four Musketeers running over to their position. All the while as Athos explained to the soldiers how he needed them to give them cover while he and his friends tried to gain the infirmary, he caught Aramis' tight-lipped expression. Athos took that to mean that Monsieur d'Artagnan's condition was deteriorating fast.

"Athos?" Time was of the essence. With the amount of blood Monsieur d'Artagnan was losing, Aramis figured the musket ball must have hit an artery just below the collarbone. "We have to hurry." A sideways look at d'Artagnan had Aramis closing his eyes, murmuring a quick prayer. "Someone also has to take care of our pup as well. I believe he's in shock."

"I'll take the kid. Just make sure the whelp's père makes it." Placing his musket, pistol and rapier back in his weapons belt Porthos went behind d'Artagnan. Leaning down he wrapped both arms about the younger man's waist. When Porthos went to pull the kid up, that's when his problems mounted.

Coming out of his stupor, the fog that had clouded d'Artagnan's mind cleared up when he suddenly felt himself being tugged upward against his wishes. Struggling against his friend's brute strength, he yelled at him. "What... what are you doing, Porthos! Let go of me!" Trying his best to kick out at his larger brother, it was a useless feat. "I'm not leaving him!"

"Ya can stay 'ere if'n ya want and get shot up an all but the idea is ta get your père ta the infirmary!" Porthos bellowed right back at the kid. "And you're in everyone's road!" Wrestling with the whelp wasn't what he had bargained for. It wasn't until Porthos explained to d'Artagnan what was going on that the young Gascon began to settle down.

With the other soldiers giving them cover, Athos helped Aramis with his patient. The steps leading up to the infirmary were the most problematic for them. It had greatly helped them that Monsieur d'Artagnan was not totally dead weight, as they carried him between them. Still conscious the older Gascon was still able to move, if not stagger, along. The entire time they mounted the steps together, Aramis kept a steady pressure on the bleeding wound.

Athos was amazed that the Gascon had not passed out yet, considering the amount of blood loss. They certainly grow men of strength in Gascony, he silently mused. Captain Treville and d'Artagnan were prime examples of that. Though in the latter's case, Athos thought the pup had a good dose of stubborness thrown in which helped as well. Later, he wouldn't be surprised to learn that the women of Gascony were just as hardy.

++++

_Infirmary_

Crashing through the infirmary door Aramis and Athos led their bleeding patient to the first empty bed available, leaving a trail of blood on the floor as they dragged Monsieur d'Artagnan between them.

Twisting his body around at the intrusion, Devereaux frowned wondering how many more beds he would need to prepare as injured soldiers kept filing in. Upon noting that this latest victim was not a Musketeer, Devereaux was curious indeed. But his first duty was to help the wounded. It mattered not who they were. He would discover this man's story later.

"As you can see," keeping pressure on the injury, Aramis helped guide Monsieur d'Artagnan down onto the bed, "we have brought you another patient that requires your services."

"Musket ball?" Devereaux queried, even though he could have guessed at the answer. He had been treating all manner of injuries as they came in, but the majority had been wounds from musket fire.

"Oui," Aramis nodded, "and tis still lodged inside." Waiting for the physician to take over, Aramis stepped closer to d'Artagnan. The lad didn't look the worse for wear from Porthos' manhandling. But the young Gascon was nearly as white in the face as the pup's père. However, before Aramis could check d'Artagnan over, a strained voice spoke up.

"I... I must... must speak... with my son," Alexandre insisted, despite the agony he was in.

"What you must do, Monsieur," removing the blood-soaked sash, Devereaux threw it on the floor, "is let me do my job."

Weakly trying to push the doctor's hands aside, Alexandre' eyes tried to seek out his boy. "Charles..."

Falling to his knees beside the bed, d'Artagnan took hold of papa's right hand. "I'm here beside you."

"Tis taken something... something like... this to... open up my heart... again." Closing his eyes against the burning pain in his shoulder, Alexandre didn't release his boy's hand. "I don't... don't want to meet my maker... without... telling you how... proud Francoise would... have been... of you. How... proud I am... of you too."

Words d'Artagnan had yearned to hear all those many years gone past were finally out in the open. He wished it wouldn't have taken something so dire to make it come about though. Especially if papa were to leave him to be with maman.

"Monsieur, I have to remove that ball immediately!" Turning toward Aramis, Devereaux pointed to his medicine cabinet. "You know the supplies I need." While Aramis did as asked, Devereaux looked down upon his patient. He certainly would have preferred the man to have been unconscious, but one couldn't always get what one wanted in this life. Unfortunately this happened to Devereaux quite a bit. When you're a physician to a regiment full of Musketeers, who had the uncanniest knack of getting hurt in the most unlikely of places, you learned to think on your feet. If it meant putting a strip of leather between the man's teeth, for his patient to bite on while still awake, then tis what Devereaux would do.

Refusing to let his tears fall, d'Artagnan's lips trembled. "Papa you're not going to die. So get that thought out of your head right now."

"From... your mouth... my boy... to God's ear."

"D'Artagnan," reaching out a hand to his protégé, Athos gripped the lad's shoulder, "leave the good doctor to his work."

"Non, Athos!" Afraid if he moved from papa's side his parent would slip away from him, d'Artagnan wouldn't be budged.

"Just as stubborn... as... Francoise ever was." Alexandre's exhausted whisper trailed away.

"But you loved that about maman," d'Artagnan offered. "I remember you telling me that all the time. Even though you fought with her over something you both disagreed over. It didn't matter to you."

"I've been a... a stubborn old... fool, son." Grimacing from his pain, trying to stay awake long enough to make himself heard, Alexandre gazed with blurry eyes upon his only child. "Blaming you... for her... death was so... very wrong... of me and Francoise... would be ashamed... of my... my behavior toward... you." The room began spinning around him, as Alexandre blinked his eyes a few times trying to clear his vision. "Forgive... me..."

Before d'Artagnan could respond, papa passed out on him.

 _"Dieu merci_." Murmuring those words softly to himself, Devereaux was glad this gentleman finally lost consciousness. It made his job that much easier. No one had bothered to tell him his patient's name, but after listening to the conversation that passed between d'Artagnan and the injured man, Devereaux learned that this was the young Gascon's père. Now that he knew, he could certainly see the similarities between them. Also understanding why d'Artagnan refused to leave his patient's side, Devereaux offered a compromise.

"Lad, if you take that chair over there," Devereaux indicated the one by the foot of the bed, "I'll let you remain during surgery. But..." holding up a finger pointed directly at d'Artagnan, his brows drew together, "you have to be quiet as a la souris and not move a muscle. Understood?" Receiving a vigorous nod of the young Musketeer's head, Devereaux kindly smiled at the lad.

"Aramis, you will assist me." With his instruments laid out on the table beside him, Devereaux glanced at the quiet marksman. "Tis not so much a matter of stopping him from losing anymore blood that concerns me...." he didn't get to finish as Aramis picked up his train of thought.

"Tis the worry of any foreign matter carried into the wound path from Monsieur d'Artagnan's clothing." Noting a pleased look from the physician, Aramis continued. "The musket ball itself is fairly sterile... perhaps not completely so, but with the heat from the charge and friction of the ball coming out of the musket it would probably come close to sterilizing it."

"Oui, Docteur Aramis," Devereaux gently teased the marksman. "However, any bacteria contained within the fibers of clothing or growing on the skin will be carried into the wound channel. Leaving us with a very high risk of infection."

Listening to Devereaux speaking with Aramis, Athos' gut clenched. Hovering over the pup he rubbed his thumb up and down the back of d'Artagnan's neck, trying to keep the lad calm. His protégé was already worried over the amount of blood his père lost. Now to hear the concerns being brought up about infection setting in, it would be all that Athos and Porthos could do in keeping their youngest from falling apart.

It wasn't that d'Artagnan was innocent about these procedures. Far from it. Thus far the lad's been in the infirmary more times than any of them, that Athos could recall. So the pup knew the ins and outs of infirmary procedure but this time things were different. This time it had to do with someone very close to d'Artagnan's heart. It didn't matter that time and distance had separated them. It didn't matter that they hadn't seen eye to eye in years. What mattered was that they were finally now together, and Athos prayed that there would be many more of those years to come for both Alexandre d'Artagnan and his son.

++++

Well over a couple of hours later, Doctor Devereaux and Aramis had finished their surgery and were quietly conversing with each other off to the side of Monsieur d’Artagnan’s bed.

D’Artagnan, who had indeed been sitting in the same chair the physician had told him to stay in, began fidgeting.

Lingering in the infirmary also was Porthos still. Athos had left over a half an hour ago to go check in with Captain Treville, to gauge their wounded and casualties of both Musketeers and malcontents.

Watching d’Artagnan beginning to squirm, Porthos thought la souris was about to roar.

Left leg bouncing nervously up and down, while d’Artagnan waited for Doctor Devereaux to let him go back over to papa’s side, he felt a heavy hand land on his shoulder. Staring up into sympathetic, warm brown eyes, d’Artagnan managed a weak smile.

“Waitin’ is always the ‘ardest part, kid.”

Porthos’ solid presence beside him, along with his friend’s words of comfort, helped d’Artagnan maintain focus. “Like how you, Athos and Aramis had to wait to see how I fared after my run-in with Ronan and his gang?”

“Them were dark days for certain.” Remembering the various injuries the kid had sported back then, Porthos became unsettled just thinking about it again.

“Papa’s not awake yet.” His eyes never strayed from the inert figure laying on the bed. It was because of this that d’Artagnan eventually noted a twitch of fingers. Taking that to mean papa was beginning to show signs of waking, he shot out of his seat needing no further incentive. Brushing past Porthos, to stand hovering over the man he still loved with all his heart, d'Artagnan leaned over to place a kiss upon papa's forehead.

Still talking with Aramis, Devereaux kept his eyes on d’Artagnan. The lad’s color was much better now than when he had first arrived. At least the young Gascon hadn’t given off the appearance of passing out on them. That was something to be thankful for at least. “Son, why don’t you get some rest,” Devereaux advised. “Your père’s not going to regain consciousness for a few hours at the most. If not longer.”

“But I saw the fingers of his right hand move,” d’Artagnan insisted. "I don't want papa to think I left him before he woke up."

“D’Artagnan.” Speaking softly to his young friend, as one would a skittish horse, Aramis walked around the other side of the bed to stand beside the lad. “The doctor is correct.” Placing both his hands on d’Artagnan’s slim shoulders, Aramis gazed into the anxious eyes of his petit frere. “Do me a favor and go with Porthos to the captain’s office. I’m sure Captain Treville would like to know that his good friend is holding his own.”

“You’re just trying to get rid of me.” Grumbling his displeasure, d’Artagnan scowled at the marksman. Hearing Porthos laughing in the background didn't help his mood much either.

“Is it working?” Grinning at their youngest, Aramis pulled the lad in close for a hug. “Come, mon ami, and do us both the favor of you listening to me for once.”

Affronted at Aramis’ teasing words, d’Artagnan stepped out of the embrace. “When have I ever _not_ listened to you?”

Pretending to think really hard upon it, tapping his chin, Aramis began to tick off each time d'Artagnan had turned a deaf ear to his words of wisdom. "Let's see there was that time when I told you to cover the corner alley to trap the Dupont brothers and you thought it was smarter to be on top of the roof to jump down upon them instead." Smirking, Aramis folded his arms. "Remember how well that turned out? Mmmmm," he hummed. "A broken arm I believe was the result of that venture."

Pausing Aramis raised another finger. "The other time was when I told you to be careful when waking Porthos up from a nap." Shaking his head, he heard the lad sighing in resignation. "You shook his shoulder rather vigorously and Porthos woke up swinging." Laughing, his hands on his hips, Aramis wasn't sure what was funnier. That particular memory or d'Artagnan's cute pout Aramis was staring at this very minute. "A black eye and a swollen jaw that time." He brought up several more incidents, just to hammer his point home, until their young one told him to cease.

“All right. All right,” d’Artagnan retorted sourly. “So there were a few times, I'll grant you that," he shrugged. "Guess I'll do as you asked." Porthos was already waiting for him by the door. But before departing, d'Artagnan turned right back around to point his finger at Aramis. “But I think you made up a few of those because I don’t remember them.”

“Interesting that _selective memory_ problem you have _,_ d’Artagnan.” Bowing to the pup, Aramis threw the young Gascon a cocky grin. Observing an even more disgusted expression cross the lad's face, Aramis chuckled. Once his petit frere left the infirmary, he went back over to Monsieur d'Artagnan's bed where Doctor Devereaux was still checking his patient's vitals.

"Aramis, you have my thanks for getting that young man to leave." Monsieur d'Artagnan was as well as could be expected for the time being. Satisfied that all that could be done for the older Gascon had been accomplished, Devereaux went about other duties.

"All in a day's work." Pulling up a chair, Aramis kept a vigil by d'Artagnan's père. Taking up a small bible that was sitting on the night stand he began to thumb through the pages.

++++

_Captain Treville's office_

Both Treville and Athos were hashing out what had transpired in the courtyard today. Also they were waiting for Rene to bring them a report consisting of a list of injured Musketeers and any casualties that resulted from the debacle that had taken place.

Pouring himself a small glass of brandy Treville then did the same for Athos. He was filling his lieutenant's glass halfway intending to stop there however upon noting Athos' expression, Treville lifted a brow in question.

"Tis been that kind of day," Athos waved his hand in the air, leaning back in his chair, "just keep pouring."

Much to his amusement Treville found himself laughing, doing exactly what Athos told him until the younger officer's glass was full of amber colored liquid. When the door to his office opened and closed, he looked up to see d'Artagnan standing there appearing uncertain as what to do with himself. Not so Porthos who strode forward and pulled out a chair for himself. "How is Alexandre doing, son?"

"Doctor Devereaux and Aramis told me that they removed the musket ball without any problem." Running a hand down the back of his neck, d'Artagnan tried to work the kinks out of it. "Tis but a waiting game now." Dropping down tiredly into another vacant chair, d'Artagnan's head hung down as if it was too heavy for him to keep up.

"That is good news, d'Artagnan." Concern for his protégé grew again, as Athos observed the lad not making eye contact with any of them.

"Verrill has gone to help where he can and then he was going to stop by the infirmary later," Treville offered the youth. "Tis fortunate that he was here. Considering what happened I needed every able bodied man I could lay my hands on."

"I just pray that Aramis and the doctor are correct and that I have an opportunity to tell papa that I do forgive him."

Having been with the lad in the infirmary, Athos had heard Monsieur d'Artagnan's words to his son before passing out. Realizing that if an unfortunate turn of events did occur, preventing the pup from telling his père that all was forgiven, the psychological damage to the lad would be immeasurable.

++++

_Notes:_

_Dieu soit loué_ \- praise God  
_Dieu merci_ \- thank God  
_La souris_ \- mouse

 _Quote: "It's been that kind of day... just keep pouring"_ \- from Aunty Acid.

Usually, whenever I go in-depth into an injury in my stories, I try to do some research on it, etc.. So having said that, I looked up what would happen where I placed Monsieur d'Artagnan's injury with a musket ball hit below his collarbone to the left shoulder. When a projectile such as that, or in modern days say a bullet, enters that particular area it has the possbility of hitting the subclavian artery causing dramatic blood loss. There are two subclavian artieres. One on your left and the other on your right which supply blood to both arms.  
And the information pertaining to foreign matter also came from my research.


	16. Finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, gang, this is the last chapter. I truly hope everyone has enjoyed the ride thus far.  
> But please don't get mad at me for the ending because you never know what's going to happen.
> 
> ++++

_Later in the same day_

An exhausted d’Artagnan trailed after his mentor, and Porthos, back up to the infirmary. He had been all over the Garrison helping out where needed. Busy work Athos had called it which had helped keep d’Artagnan’s mind off his own troubles.

Daring to poke his nose in the infirmary, a short time after having been warned earlier not to do so by Aramis and the physician, had been a poor choice on his part because as soon as he had done so Aramis had swatted d’Artagnan’s rear with a bible the marksman had been reading. It had the incentive of effectively shooing him right back outside the infirmary doors, before Doctor Deveraux caught sight of him.

So now, many hours past, Athos deemed it safe enough for his protégé to put in an appearance. Thing was d’Artagnan was so tired he could hardly keep his eyes open. The entire time he had lent his aid around the Garrison, papa had been uppermost in d’Artagnan’s mind. Papa simply had to live, there was no other alternative as far as he was concerned.

Cautiously following his older friends inside the infirmary d’Artagnan looked about the room for Aramis and his bible, the marksman’s weapon of choice against him last time. Not seeing him anywhere, d’Artagnan stepped further into the room. Spying Porthos crooking a finger at him, he joined them by papa’s bedside.

Gazing down at his parent d’Artagnan was pleased to see papa awake, even though the older man’s eyes appeared to be slightly glazed over with pain. Plopping down on a vacant chair Porthos shoved at him, d’Artagnan once again took papa’s right hand within his own. “Wrong place… wrong time, eh?”

“Story…” licking dry lips, Alexandre tried to get his words out, “story of my… life, Charles.” Briefly closing his eyes they immediately snapped open again, as if he didn’t want to miss anything of import now that he was lucid enough to understand what was going on. “What’s the damage?”

Having heard his patient’s words Devereaux approached the bed, smiling into the older Gascon’s eyes. “Musket ball to your left shoulder just below the collarbone.” Gently patting Monsieur d’Artagnan on the man’s uninjured shoulder he added, “Good news is that you’ll live. Bad news,” he shrugged, “bien, you did lose a lot of blood and we’ll have to make sure you eat the correct foods to build it back up again.”

“Red wine ‘ill do that up in a jiffy for ya.” Grinning Porthos winked at Monsieur d’Artagnan, earning a smile from the invalid. The whelp just snorted at his suggestion.

“Er, oui, Porthos, that is correct.” Pinching the bridge of his nose, Devereaux sighed. “Though I prefer my patient to not get drunk in the process of healing.”

Tilting his head to the side, lips twitching in amusement, Athos’ eyes shifted from d’Artagnan to the lad’s père. “Doctor, for all those who think alcohol is a problem,” he too gave a quick wink to Monsieur d’Artagnan, “according to chemistry alcohol is a _solution_.”

Guffaws erupted from the giant that was Porthos. Along with Athos’ quiet chuckles and d’Artagnan’s snorts, Devereaux wondered how the conversation had gotten out of hand. “Athos, tis hardly a recommendation for drinking. I believe that liver of yours could use a break in that regard.”

“’E’s almost a teetotaler now, Doc,” Porthos chuckled. “Ever since the kid ‘ere became Athos’ protégé.”

Smirking, Athos dipped his head acknowledging Porthos’ defense of his character. Following up with something witty he said, “Sometimes I drink a glass of water just to surprise my liver.”

“You men are impossible!” Ignoring Porthos and Athos, for the moment, Devereaux glance at d’Artagnan. “Tis fine, son, to spend time with your père. We just don’t want to tire him out.”

Understanding what the doctor told him, d’Artagnan nodded his head. There was something else, however, that had been on his mind ever since he had arrived. “By the way where is Aramis?” The marksman still hadn’t made an appearance which concerned him.

“I made him go get something to eat and ordered him to rest as well.” Daring any of the Musketeers to tell him that Aramis was made of sterner stuff and didn’t need to eat or sleep, Devereaux glared at all of them.

“No arguments from this quarter.” Smiling down into Monsieur d’Artagnan’s tired, worn features, Athos’ blue eyes crinkled up in the corners.

“Son,” squeezing Charles' hand, Alexandre wasn’t sure if he was properly awake yet, “are your… brothers… always like this?”

“Believe it or not they improve,” d’Artagnan whispered, “upon longer acquaintance.”

Slightly bemused by his boy’s humorous response, Alexandre allowed a small snort to escape past his lips.

All levity aside, d’Artagnan waxed serious. “I didn’t get the chance before to tell you this, papa, because you had passed out prior to surgery,” swallowing a huge lump in his throat he continued, “but you do have my forgiveness.” Laying his head down on the bed, d’Artagnan felt shaky fingers card through his long hair. “I’m so very sorry this happened to you,” tears began to well up in his eyes. “If I could turn back the clock tis I who would have taken that musket ball to the shoulder for you instead.”

“I’d be a sorry parent… indeed if I… had wished you to have… taken my place.” Letting his hand rest on top of Charles' head, Alexandre closed his eyes. “Though I have longed… to be with my… beloved Francoise,” he blinked his heavy eyelids open, “the good Lord has… not deemed it my time… to join her.”

“You’re a stubborn old mule, Alexandre.” Opening and closing the door behind him, Verrill entered the room just in time to catch the other man’s words. “I doubt heaven is ready yet to see the likes of you up there with the angels.”

Turning his head to the side, Alexandre weakly waved a hand at Verrill to step closer. “Trouble… maker… tis what you’ve always… excelled at being.”

“Now we know whom d’Artagnan really takes after.” His jest had made the others laugh, including his protégé. Upon listening to Monsieur d'Artagnan's chuckles turn into a coughing fit, Athos grimaced. Of course the doctor hadn't appreciated that happening either, judging by Devereaux's scowling face directed his way.

"Here this will help." Offering papa a glass of water to sooth his throat, d'Artagnan cocked a brow at Athos.

"I didn't mean for that to happen." Shaking his head, holding out his hands, Athos felt badly. "Apologies."

Waving the Musketeer's apologies away, Alexandre finished the water. "It wasn't... like... you truly meant... me any... harm. In fact I found... it hilarious... that you compared... my son to... Verrill."

"Ah! Since you have spoken my name," Verrill drew closer to Alexandre's bed, "I nearly forgot to tell you that Jean-Armand sends his regards. Unfortunately because of what occurred he is currently at the palace having to answer to King Louis as to what happened and why it did in the first place."

"Ouch!" Even Alexandre knew that was one task he'd never want to be charged with. His Majesty wasn't known for his patience. He didn't envy his old friend in the slightest. "If... if... Jean-Armand survives," he smiled, "I shall... shall be glad to... see him later."

"Uh, the king ain't gonna be very 'appy with any of us for lettin' those malcontents loose in the Garrison." Frowning, Porthos exchanged a worried glance with Athos.

"I'm still trying to find the ass who left that keg of powder outside," Athos grumbled. Then catching his younger brother gazing intently at his injured parent, he knew what he should do. "Gentlemen," speaking softly Athos held out a hand, "let us give d'Artagnan a chance to be with his père uninterrupted, if you would."

Grateful, d'Artagnan dipped his head at his mentor. Watching his brothers, Monsieur Lawrie and the physician move away from them, he lightly touched his forehead to papa's. Once again placing a kiss there he sat back down. Both his hands rested on papa's chest feeling the steady rise and fall of every breath his parent took. It comforted d'Artagnan greatly.

"One day, Charles," slowly smiling at the boy, Alexandre's grip tightened on his son's hand, "I believe... you'll give Jean-Armand and... your friends... a run for... their money."

Rolling his eyes, a smug expression crossed d'Artagnan's features. "What's to say that I'm not already doing that?" His words made papa laugh again and wince all at the same time. "Apologies," he murmured contritely. "I'm as bad as Athos. I didn't mean to bring you further discomfort."

"I'm a tough old... bird, child." The pain in his shoulder, from where he jarred it laughing, began to recede. "With his good arm, he reached out to Charles. "Help me... to sit up."

Instantly d'Artagnan obeyed, all the while hearing Doctor Devereaux tutting in the background. No doubt the physician didn't think this a wise move. Even though d'Artagnan wasn't quite sure either, at this juncture he didn't want further discord between them, so he carried on. Plumping several pillows up behind papa's back, he raised a brow. "Better?"

"Much." Sighing as a short spell of dizziness passed from being upright, Alexandre dared to look about the room. "The view's different from... this angle." This time it was his turn in making Charles give a small huff of laughter. Patting his boy's hand, Alexandre gazed into the face that made his heart hurt every time because Charles resembled his Francoise so very much.

"Do you think we could put all our baggage behind us and start again?" D'Artagnan prayed it would be so and that they could once more be the father and son that he had always wanted.

"I had thought that... on my journey... to Paris. Then once I was here observing you... old haunts began to creep... up on me again." Squeezing Charles' hand again, Alexandre wanted to make things right. "It only took a... musket ball to make me... see the light, so to... speak."

"We have a lot to catch up on, papa. How long can you be away from the farm?" Crossing his fingers, d'Artagnan held his breath.

"I have several retainers helping me work the farm now and there's no need for me to rush back home." He noted surprise register on Charles' face at that. Indeed there would be many things to catch up on between them. "Verrill has nothing important either to get back too." Fighting the urge to laugh again, Alexandre tapped his child on the nose. "Be careful what you wish for, Charles, you may get sick of seeing both of us hanging around the Garrison after a time."

"Impossible!" Very pleased at this news, d'Artagnan got up from his seat. Twisting his head around he zeroed in on his mentor. "Athos, papa and Monsieur Lawrie are going to stay with us for a time."

Walking back over to the lad, Athos placed a hand on d'Artagnan's back. "Tis good to hear. I welcome the opportunity to get to know you better, Monsieur."

"Considering the rocky start we all had," with a thoughtful look at Athos, Alexandre could tell that the lieutenant remembered the incident at the inn very well, "I too look forward to that."

"'Eh, ya may come ta regret ya said that, Monsieur d'Artagnan." His dancing dark eyes rested on the older Gascon, while trying to avoid the light punch from the whelp.

"I think this may turn out to be a most lively visit." Standing beside the soldiers, Verrill was feeling happy with the way things had turned out. Not so much Alexandre getting shot, that certainly wasn't in the plan, but it appeared that finally old hurts would soon be buried for good, or so Verrill prayed.

“I believe my patient’s had enough attention for the day.” After his rather dry announcement, Devereaux began ushering the men out the door.

“Nothin’ like gettin’ the bum’s rush,” Porthos griped.

“We overstayed our welcome anyway.” Nudging d’Artagnan in the shoulder, Athos tried to gauge the pup’s emotions.

“I’m fine.” A huge yawn escaping d’Artagnan, in turn, caused Athos to throw a companionable arm across his shoulder. Finding himself being herded over to the barracks, d’Artagnan surprised himself by not protesting being led like a child.

“I believe tis time for all good petit Gascons to be in bed.” A teasing smile graced Athos’ lips.

“For once you’ll get no argument from me.” He was so tired that d’Artagnan found himself tripping over his own two feet. Shortly after that he found himself airborne over Porthos’ broad shoulder. “Hey!”

“Safer this way, kid.” Grinning, and with a wink toward Athos, Porthos walked side-by-side with his elder brother toward the whelp’s barracks. "Faster too." Amused Musketeers, they passed along the way, traded greetings and snarky comments with them.

“Leave me some dignity.” Grumbling sleepily, d’Artagnan was highly embarrassed at the picture he presented.

“ _Dignity_ is an overrated commodity, mon petit frere, or haven’t you heard?”

Recognizing that breezy voice anywhere, d’Artagnan immediately twisted his head to the side until Aramis crossed into his line of vision.

“Tell Porthos to put me down,” d’Artagnan whined irritably. “He listens to you.”

Amused at the lad's tone, he enjoyed the spectacle. Snorting loudly, he fell into line beside Athos. “If memory serves,” Aramis scratched the beard underneath his chin, “Porthos hasn’t done anything I’ve asked him for nigh onto a week.”

“Do not despair, d’Artagnan.” Not even trying to hide how entertained he was by this, Athos laughed. “We are nearly at our destination.”

“A great bunch of friends you’ve all turned out to be.” He hadn’t meant it as a compliment, as d’Artagnan’s words came out sourly. But, of course, these were the inseparables and his not so subtle jibe rolled off their backs.

“Why merci beaucoup, youngster.” First up the steps to the pup's barracks, Athos held the door open for the others.

“Merci.” Tipping his chapeau to the lad, Aramis stepped into the room next.

Last, but not least, was Porthos with his precious cargo. “Yeah, d’Art. I think we’re pretty good pals ta ya too.” Approaching the kid’s bed he let their youngest slide right off his shoulder to sit upon it.

Needling d’Artagnan all the more, Aramis knew his words would not go over well with the young Gascon. “Do you need help getting out of your uniform if you’re too tired to do so? Because I could lend you an extra pair of arms if need be.” Just as he thought. His offer was met with disgust, clearly written on the lad’s face.

“I am not such an enfant that I can’t do it myself.” Tired as he was, d’Artagnan managed to remove his doublet first then the rest of his leathers and boots followed. He did allow Aramis to hand him his long nightshirt. The marksman stood at the foot of d’Artagnan’s bed waiting for him to crawl under the covers. Aramis probably thought he’d make a mad dash back to be by papa’s side. Which, when he thought about it, would have been something he normally would have done. Except he was totally exhausted from being up so early in the morn, then dealing with the malcontents in the courtyard and worry over papa's condition. All of that had taken their toll on him today. “Bonne nuit, d’Artagnan,” echoed in the room from the trio. But d’Artagnan barely heard them as he dropped off to sleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

++++

_Over a week later, late morning - Garrison_

Much improved, after days of rest in the infirmary, Alexandre had been released. He left with a stern warning from the good physician that he was not to overtax himself for a considerable time. Having no such intention to entertain the idea of doing anything that would set his recovery back, Alexandre had thanked Doctor Devereaux for taking such great care of him.

Today found Alexandre in the Garrison courtyard observing the inseparables and Charles putting other soldiers through their paces. Porthos was involved in hand-to-hand basics with several raw recruits. The larger, dark-skinned Musketeer was bellowing his displeasure so loudly at the men that Alexandre had to stick a finger in his ear.

Aramis was also busy training more recruits in target shooting. It looked like the marksman was having better luck than Porthos. And at present, his son and Athos were clashing swords off one another in the practice area. It had been told to Alexandre that watching Charles and the lieutenant spar was a thing to behold. From what he could see, he agreed. Charles seemed to be everywhere at once dancing around his mentor. Then again Athos would counter the boy’s moves with surprising ones of his own. All in all it was quite an entertaining show.

Getting the sense he was no longer alone, Alexandre glanced over his shoulder to find Jean-Armand standing there.

“Impressive are they not?” Proud of his men and not afraid of showing it, Jean-Armand couldn’t but help to boast somewhat to his long-time friend.

“Do you mean your entire lot or Charles and Athos in particular?” It was then Alexandre heard Athos begin swearing a blue streak. The reason for the lieutenant’s upset was because Charles had suddenly dropped close to the ground, in a near crouch position, to take several rapid swipes at the older Musketeer’s unprotected legs.

“In this case the latter two.” Amused upon noting Athos’ face turning an unbecoming shade of red, Jean-Armand refrained from laughing.

“I don’t ever remember learning a move like the one Charles pulled on Athos.” Quirking a brow Alexandre stared at his friend, obviously waiting for an answer.

“Tis what we consider d’Artagnan’s signature move and tis all the lad’s own.” Letting his hand rest on Alexandre’s shoulder Jean-Armand said, “We're all proud of that young man. You should be too."

“I am. More so now having seen what he can do with a blade.” When Athos grew tired of Charles’ antics, Alexandre watched in amusement as the lieutenant swatted his son’s rear with his chapeau. “They are close. Like true brothers of blood.”

“ _All for one and one for all._ ” Murmuring the Musketeer motto, Jean-Armand nudged the other man with his shoulder. “Porthos, d’Artagnan, Athos and Aramis are known as the inseparables for a reason.” Listening to Alexandre hum in agreement, Jean-Armand was going to continue making his rounds around the Garrison, until two of his Musketeers rode in from an early morning patrol.

“Captain,” jumping off his horse Maheur walked straight up to the older officer, “we’ve had reports that Ronan and his men are in the area again.” Glancing over his shoulder at Groult, who had just dismounted, he waved the other man over. “We should discuss this in private, sir.”

“I agree.” With a quick nod to Alexandre, Treville headed for his office with the other two soldiers swiftly following on his heels.

Having seen the exchange take place, both Athos and d’Artagnan were curious. So they called a halt to their sparring session. Sitting down upon the bench, beside Alexandre, they wiped the sweat from their faces with towels that the older Gascon handed them.

“Why did Treville rush off so fast?” Athos asked, casting his eyes about the courtyard.

“From what I recall one of the soldiers mentioned news about someone named _Ronan_.” No sooner had those words escaped his lips when Alexandre noted a most odd reaction from his son and Athos. Both men had shot off the bench as if their pants had caught fire. “I gather this Ronan is rather an important figure?”

Grim faced, Athos exchanged a concerned look with his protégé. “There are words I could use to describe him,” he hissed, “but none I would care to repeat in polite company.”

“I see.” Noting how pale Charles had become, Alexandre intuitively understood that this Ronan had something to do with his boy. During their brief conversation, Aramis and Porthos came over to join them. Both of their faces mirrored Athos'.

“We just heard.” A quick glance at the young Gascon made Aramis remember what d’Artagnan had suffered at that batard's hands.”

This was another observation that hadn’t escaped Alexandre’s eyes. Something was afoot but he doubted that any of the men, including Charles, were likely to tell him.

“Can’t wait ta get my ‘ands on that piece of scum,” Porthos growled.

“Gentlemen,” Athos drawled, “I suggest we pay a visit to the captain’s office.” At three affirmative nods of agreement Athos was ready to lead the way but hesitated, waiting for d’Artagnan to have a few last words with his père.

“This is old business we need to take care of, papa.” Thinking back to that terrible time, d'Artagnan remembered believing himself _expendable_. Not any longer. "If Captain Treville let's us ride out I'm not sure how long we'll be gone... but you'll still be here?"

"Try getting rid of me, Charles." Wishing he could take credit for the way his child had turned out, Alexandre silently gave thanks that Charles hadn't been filled with bitterness like he had all those long years ago. His son had ridden away from Lupiac a boy, sights set on Paris. Upon Alexandre's arrival to this bustling city, he discovered Charles had become someone that no longer needed the guidance to become a man. Nor did the lad need anyone's approval.

No answer could have pleased d'Artagnan more. Turning away from his parent, he walked alongside his brothers. _This time_ he wouldn't become Ronan's victim. _This time_ the tables would be turned, and Ronan would rue the day he had ever heard the name... _d'Artagnan_.

The End

++++

_Notes:_

_Quote: “For all those who think alcohol is a problem… according to chemistry alcohol is a solution.”_ – from Aunty Acid.

 _Quote: “Sometimes I drink a glass of water just to surprise my liver.”_ From Aunty Acid.


End file.
